


be yourself my ally

by lady_romanov



Series: Author's Favorites [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Anxiety, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Family, Family Feels, Female Friendship, First Kiss, First Meetings, Future Fic, Past Abuse, Politics, Pre-Relationship, Queer Themes, Reunions, Sister-Sister Relationship, Slow Burn, The War for the Dawn, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27188578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_romanov/pseuds/lady_romanov
Summary: Sansa knew well enough that beautiful things were never beautiful beneath the surface.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Jeyne Poole & Sansa Stark, Jon Snow & Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Jorelle Mormont/Jeyne Poole, Sansa Stark/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: Author's Favorites [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2048705
Comments: 56
Kudos: 199





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> So, here we are with part one of my Daensa future fic. Please take this with a grain of salt, I haven't read the books in a while, so this is probably a mix of both show and book, but leans very heavily on book. There won't be terribly much plot to this, just these two lovely girls slowly working their way to a future relationship. This has not been all the way proofread, so if there are any glaring problems, please point them out to me, otherwise: Enjoy!
> 
> Title from "Ode to Aphrodite" by Sappho.

Sansa had always had an eye for things that were beautiful. Where Arya had begged for horses and swords and stories about dragons, and the boys had begged for steel and glory, Sansa had preferred gifts of pretty, useless things: dolls with real hair of gold she could braid tiny paper crowns into, jewel-blue eyes, and miniature dresses trimmed with lace; blue silk ribbons that matched her eyes to twine through her auburn curls; reams of fabrics in creams and golds and pinks to sew dresses from; blue winter roses and jonquils from the glass gardens that she could press between the pages of her storybooks and preserve in the little jewelry box her mother had given to her for her eighth nameday. Arya had called her silly, and Jeyne had sighed with envy, while Robb had ruffled her hair affectionately and called her  _ princess,  _ but Sansa was never happier than when everything was pretty and proper to her eyes. 

It was not only material beauty she desired; Sansa had grown up on stories of the South that her mother would tell, and for all of her childhood, she burned with longing to see the beauty that lay beyond the borders of the dull, frozen North. She longed for the rolling verdant fields and the brilliant sapphire of the rivers of her mother’s birthplace, for the gilded glory and blood-red stone castles of King’s Landing; she longed to see the golden halls of Highgarden, to walk through rose gardens that stretched as far as the eye could see; she dreamed of white knights who wore capes of cloth-of-gold and rode in tourneys upon beautiful white horses. Even the Eyrie would suffice, she thought, with its glittering waterfall of Alyssa’s Tears, and the towers that stood like giants among the clouds. Surely her father would make her a match with someone beautiful and elegant and refined. Surely Sansa was destined to walk halls filled with portraits of laughing maidens, to attend balls in gowns of the finest, brightest silks, to live a life of lush and lavish beauty.

When her father and King Robert announced her betrothal to Joffrey, it had been all of her dreams coming true. Arya may mock her for dreaming of being queen and raising a bevy of golden-haired children, but to Sansa, nothing could be more exciting than the thought of one day standing beside Joffrey in the Sept of Baelor and having a crown placed upon her head.

Those dreams ended the moment Ice came down upon her father’s neck. 

It was like walking through the most beautiful dream, only to suddenly realize that it was really a nightmare; the beautiful veneer cracked, and Sansa saw through to the ugliness beneath. No longer did she admire Joffrey’s fine face and pretty eyes; instead she saw the malformed, vile monster that lurked under his skin and burst out at the slightest provocation. No longer did she envy Queen Cersei and her glorious beauty; instead she recognized the coldness behind her emerald gaze, the greed and malice behind every simpering word. No longer did King’s Landing seem like the palace of her dreams and fantasies; instead, it became her prison, her never-ending torment, the whole of it one giant serpent’s nest snarling and snapping for the slightest scrap of power. 

Sansa would never trust beautiful things again. She could not afford to, if she wanted to survive. 

Life as a bastard was far from beautiful, and life as Harry Hardyng’s simple wife Alayne was a only a beautiful lie; life on the road during a war after she escaped upon learning of Petyr’s intentions to kill little Sweetrobin was nothing short of horrendous, and while White Harbour was a fine enough city to look upon, it was only a short stop in the Manderlys' plot to see her and a miraculously alive Rickon take their rightful place after the Boltons and Freys’ farce of a reign ended. 

The day she found herself back home in Winterfell, she decided that she had never known anything as truly beautiful as the great stone walls and grey banners and white-brown slush of snowmelt that was her home. Everything may have changed, Winterfell and herself and the world and her family, but even though nothing may be as it was in the rosy days of her childhood, as long as she had the North, as long as she had Rickon, as long as she knew the true value of beauty in the world, she could survive.

And then Daenerys Targaryen came to Winterfell.

* * *

The Dragon Queen arrived with all the pomp and grandeur of a dozen royal courts, all gilded and glittering and incandescent upon her white mare, trailing behind her a strange hodge-podge of an army and dozens of courtiers besides while above them red-black Targaryen banners swung on poles in the breeze. The bright splash of color that accompanied Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name, stood out lurid and harsh against the white-grey of the North, and Sansa felt fear pool at the base of her spine when she heard the roaring cries of dragons in the distance. Daenerys may have come in the name of peace, determined to fulfill her role as Protector of the Realm and fight back the tide of wights that even now marched towards them, but Sansa knew perfectly well that the Targaryen queen needed only to utter a few words and the North would be lost in a wash of dragon-fire and Dothraki steel. 

Still, when the Dragon Queen climbed down from her horse and stepped forward to meet her and Rickon, Sansa could not stop the treacherous thought that appeared in her mind, whispering that Daenerys Targaryen was the most beautiful person she had ever seen in her life. She was surprisingly short, with warm golden skin and long silver hair that fell like a slant of starlight down her back, done up in dozens of tiny Essosi-style braids strung with bells that sang softly in the hush that fell when the two women came face to face; her mouth was the sweetest, lushest pink, and her eyes were brilliant amethysts lined with smudges of kohl. She wore a silken gown of Targaryen red slashed with black velvet sewn in the pattern of dragon scales down the long sleeves, all of it edged with Myrish lace that had been dyed a burnt orange so that it resembled flames where it danced along her hemline and encircled her long, elegant neck at the bust, and behind her trailed a heavy sable cape lined with cloth-of-gold. She wore no crown, but bits of black dragonglass had been threaded through her hair in the shape of a circlet at the top of her head, and around her throat she had draped a necklace of blood-red rubies and pale moonstone. She looked every inch a queen, every inch the legend people whispered tales of across all of Westeros with stars in their eyes despite having never seen the last Targaryen in the flesh. 

Sansa, who wore a fine dress of dove grey that she herself had embroidered with dozens of direwolves at the hem and leaping trouts upon the sleeve in deference to her place as heir to both House Stark and, until such time as Edmure’s wife bore a son or Rickon came of age, House Tully as well, felt frustratingly inadequate before such a picture, and hated the flare of envy that appeared in her belly at the sight of her new queen.  _ Beauty _ , she told herself,  _ is not real. It is a façade, a mummer’s farce _ .

_ Do not trust it. _

Purple eyes glittered in the light of the weak winter sun as Daenerys smiled at her. “It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Lady Stark. I have heard a great deal about the frozen majesty of the North during my journey, and so far you have not disappointed. Winterfell is as beautiful as my Hand claimed.” She smiled wider, eyes dancing. “As are you.”

Sansa swallowed. So many had called her beautiful in her life in an effort to possess her, to ruin her. No matter how glorious and benevolent the Silver Queen may seem, she was no different than any other royal; she would do whatever it took to keep her power, to protect her claim, and right now Sansa, with her claim to three of the Seven Kingdoms and the loyalty of the Northern Cavalry and Riverland army, was among the biggest threats to her power. Flattery, she knew, was only the first step many used in gaining control.

(How many times had Cersei called her a  _ pretty little dove  _ in an effort to manipulate her? How many times had Petyr called her beautiful, lovely,  _ a vision as your mother was in her youth  _ as he groped at her skirts? How many times had Lord Wyman called her a  _ pretty young thing _ as he nudged his son and nephews at her?)

She raised her chin.  _ I am strong within the walls of Winterfell. I will not be afraid, nor will I be fooled.  _ “Welcome to the North, Your Grace,” she said, dipping low into a curtsy, squeezing Rickon’s hand where the boy stood quivering with excitement beside her until he remembered to bend over in a clumsy semblance of a bow. “We are most gracious for your aid in this terrible war, and we hope that you and your company find your accommodations to be suited to your taste.” Straightening, she forced her mouth to add, “Winterfell is yours.”

* * *

Daenerys had brought food with her from the South, and as far as winning her over, Sansa considered the ability to feed her people a far better motivator than false flattery. Sansa let Rickon, after he had clumsily stumbled his way through the polite greetings that Sansa had made him memorize, run off and play with the other children of Winterfell, and so it was her and her alone who stood and watched as Daenerys directed her men to begin unloading crates from their train. Her people pitched in to help, and the new castellan of Winterfell, Brandon Tallhart, led the men with their armfuls of precious food down into Winterfell's cellar; boxes of apples and crates of cheese wheels, bushels of wheat and heaps and heaps of dried horse meat that Sansa suspected would be difficult for the people of the North to grow accustomed to. 

Jorelle Mormont, her self-appointed guard, came up to stand beside her. "She makes a fine spectacle," the Bear Island woman said. 

Sansa made a noncommittal sound. "I suspect she's had much practice."

Jory glanced over at her. "I believe King Robb would be proud of you, my lady."

Her throat tightened. The Mormont sisters and their mother were almost as committed to honoring Robb's memory as Sansa herself, in deference to the man their sister Dacey had died defending. There were times when Sansa found it unbearable just to stand in Winterfell's courtyard, the ghost of Robb and Arya and Bran and her parents a physical weight that pressed down on her heart. Still, she could not afford time to be sentimental, not with winter coming and certainly not with dragons circling their heads. "Do not let the Queen here you say that," she told Jory quietly. "I do not want her to think we intend to name Rickon King in the North."

The Manderlys had wanted her to. Sansa had even been tempted, high on the triumph of returning home, of having the loyalty of the North in the Stark name once more, and she'd all but decided to put a crown on Rickon's small head and name herself his Regent, but Jon had changed everything when he had appeared quite suddenly in Winterfell only weeks after her own returns, pale as his direwolf, with tells of the dead who threatened all they held dear. The sweetness of reuniting with her half-brother had been soured by his warnings, and she had only just started to wrap her head around the fact that all of Old Nan's stories were suddenly, horribly true when the news had come that Daenerys had arrived in Westeros. 

Jon had told her that the decision was hers, but she had known even as the words came out of his mouth that there was only one recourse. No army could fight three dragons, as proven when Daenerys swiftly toppled the Lannisters and took the Iron Throne, and if dragons were what it took to fight the Others back, then they would need to win Daenerys Targaryen over to their cause. Jon had departed for the Wall once more after pouring all of his warnings into Sansa's letter, the two oldest living children of Ned Stark watching the raven disappear into the sky carrying Sansa's pledge of loyalty to the Targaryen name in return for help defeating the dead before reluctantly parting. She had not expected it to be so hard to say goodbye to the boy she'd once blindly reviled on her mother's behalf, but the war had changed them all; Jon and Rickon were all she had left. She had prayed every day since their parting that all three of them would survive the Long Night to come. 

She was shaken from her memories when Jory huffed beside her. "I doubt that the woman who schemed her way onto the Iron Throne is stupid enough to think  _ we'd  _ be that stupid." She paused. "Robb may not have been King in the North for long, but he deserves to be remembered as such. Dacey deserves to be remembered."

Sansa couldn't remember a time she had ever been so tired. "They do," she said. "But for the sake of the future, we must let the past go, and embrace Daenerys as our queen."

Jory's mouth tightened. "And pray she'll leave us be once we've won the war."

"Yes," said Sansa. "That, too."

* * *

She had given Daenerys the Lord’s Chambers, preferring to remain in her old bedroom where the ghosts of her parents were not quite so suffocating. The morning after her arrival, the Queen invited her to break their fast together in private, and so Sansa gamely donned a dress of Tully blue and braided her hair down her back in the style Wylla had taught her, and presented herself in the very room she had been born in; even this early in the morning Daenerys looked nothing short of glorious, wearing a dress of the deepest maroon, the edges and hems of which were embroidered with black flames with the sleeves slashed to the elbow in shimmering black satin, and in her hair she had braided a string of gleaming white pearls. Her attendant, the tiny girl with skin of the deepest brown and luminous golden eyes, had set the table with the finest cutlery Winterfell had to offer, and the cooks had presented Daenerys with a feast befitting a queen; plates of flaky rye bread dotted with dried dates and thin slices of almonds, fresh-picked winter oranges with their rinds neatly removed, poached eggs served atop tiny roasted potatoes and dragon peppers from Dorne, and a thick cream-based fish and leek soup that the Manderlys had introduced to warm their bellies, steam gently wafting up from the bowls. There was a saucer of frozen cream and fresh blackberries to garnish it with, and a pitcher of warm honeymilk beside it, and while Sansa chafed at the idea of using so much of their rations for one meal, she was grateful that their cooks and maids were taking their duties to impress and ingratiate the Targaryen woman seriously.

“Please,” said Daenerys, motioning to the seat across from her. “Sit, my lady. I would have you eat with me.”

Sansa offered her a gracious smile. “I am honored, Your Grace.” Sitting, she waited for Daenerys to begin eating to pick up her own fork. 

The bread was hot and fresh, and when Daenerys began to rip off small pieces of it and use it to scoop up some of the soup, she followed suit; the sweetness of the dates and almonds finely complimented the savory richness of the dish, and she found her smile becoming genuine when Daenerys noticed her mimicking her behavior and grinned. “I have found myself pleasantly surprised at your meal offerings, Lady Stark. My bear had had me convinced that you Northerners survived only on stew and bread crusts.”

Sansa politely did not mention that she and the other occupants of Winterfell had indeed been living off of sparse meals of stew that held little meat and loaves of plain bread they did not even waste butter to flavor in an effort to save what they could for the coming Winter. She had instructed the cooks to give Daenerys the best meals they could manage, and the welcoming feast the night before had featured an entire roasted deer and plenty of dishes besides; buttered yellow corn and rich onion soup, plates of poached pears and chickens stuffed with lemons and garlic, warm kidney pie filled with thick gravy and carrots, and for dessert they’d had offerings of lemon cakes and sweet apple tarts liberally flavored with sticks of fresh cinnamon. Sansa prayed that the food Daenerys brought would help fill the deficit her visit caused. 

“I am pleased that you’ve found our food to your liking, Your Grace,” she said, taking a slice of orange and biting off a piece, enjoying the tartness that filled her mouth. She had missed Northern food while in the South, something she had not even realized until she arrived in White Harbor and the cooks plied her with dishes of seafood and winter fruits grown in glass houses, so different then the variety found in King’s Landing and the Vale. “Most Southerners find our fare to be rather lacking in taste.”

“I would not know,” Daenerys said. “I grew up in exile, and ate what I was given. My brother Viserys assured me that in Westeros we would be given fine feasts and toasts to our health upon our return.” Her smile held an edge of bitterness. “I suppose not everything he told me was a lie.”

Sansa sensed that her brother was not a topic she wished to linger on, and she could certainly understand the feeling. “I imagine that the Tyrells gave a much finer feast when you arrived in Highgarden. Lady Margaery was always most proud when she would tell me of the Reach’s bounty, and I do not believe that it is not so cold yet in the South that they must feel it so when it comes to their food stores.”

“Oh, yes,” Daenerys said wryly. “A far more grand feast, where they managed to steer the conversation back to every eligible man in the Reach no matter what topic we were speaking of.”

Sansa let out an inelegant snort. “I do believe my welcome feast in White Harbor was much the same. Did you know that Lord Wyman has an unmarried son, and as many as four available nephews? All of whom, I am sure, would do a much better job than I as a woman can at governing the North in my brother’s name.”

The silver-haired queen sighed in commiseration. “All men are the same, aren’t they? In Essos they demanded I marry well, and now that I have taken the Iron Throne, it has only grown worse. Far be it that there are more pressing issues than who I take to bed, no, let us only discuss who would be the most proper man to name as my consort. As if I am so naïve to not know that every man they suggest would only try to rule  _ me  _ as well as Westeros.”

“You do not have any intention of marrying, then?” Sansa asked, trying to ignore the voice in her head that sounded awfully like Petyr’s as it whispered  _ there are many eligible men in the North, and if you managed to steer her toward someone with Northern sympathies -  _ No. If she wanted Daenerys’ trust, she would need to be far subtler than that. 

(She would not be like Petyr. She would not.) 

Daenerys took a delicate bite of her poached eggs before answering. “I suppose I must, if I’ve any wish to be taken seriously by half the lords in the South.” Daenerys looked up at her curiously, brushing an arrant silver curl out of her face. “And you, Lady Stark? Do you intend to marry again?”

Sansa swallowed.  _ Be delicate _ , she told herself.  _ Relate.  _ “In truth, I have not had very much time to think on the matter, Your Grace, with preparing for the coming war. After all, it will be Rickon’s children who will inherit Winterfell after him, not mine.” Her throat tightened. “And I have no wish to leave Winterfell again, not until Rickon is grown at least.”

“Hm,” Daenerys said, violet eyes thoughtful. “My Lord Hand has mentioned that he would not be against reinstating your marriage.”

_ I am sure he wouldn’t,  _ Sansa thought humorlessly. She had been avoiding Tyrion for just that reason. “I am sure Lord Tyrion will need heirs quite soon,” she said carefully, “now that he is Lord of Casterly Rock. I cannot leave Winterfell nearly so quickly, not until Rickon is old enough to inherit.”

Daenerys hummed, popping a blackberry into her mouth, her pink lips stained dark by the juice. “It would be an advantageous marriage for you, would it not?” 

“I have had much experience with advantageous marriages, Your Grace, and I’ve found myself quite soured to the idea of them.”

Something briefly understanding flashed across Daenerys’ face. “I find I understand exactly how you feel, my lady.” She glanced down at the half-empty bowl of berries. “Tell me,” she said, “how is it your people have managed to grow fruit here? I would imagine it would be far too cold for such things.”

As Sansa explained about the glass houses, Daenerys never took her eyes off of her face, even as she sipped at her cup of honeymilk. Sansa was not used to being taken so seriously, but she refused to let it through her off; let Daenerys look for chinks in her armor - she would not allow her to find any. The queen might be young and beautiful, she might be understanding - she might even be kind - but she was also, as far as Sansa knew, an enemy. House Targaryen had taken much from House Stark, and Sansa would not allow Daenerys to salt the land that the Boltons and Freys had already burned. 

"Your ancestors were very clever," Daenerys said, once Sansa finished speaking. "I saw many hothouses in the Reach, yet I doubt the Tyrells ever thought to use them to grow crops during the winters."

Sansa hummed. "It does not grow so cold in the Reach, I think, not even during winter. It is always cold in the North, even during the height of summer, and so our people had to adjust, to adapt."

"Yes, I've noticed how you Northerners seem quite adept at changing to survive your circumstances," Daenerys agreed, and then paused for a moment. "Tyrion has told me some of what you faced during your time in King's Landing, though I am given to understand that he… glossed over some of the worst of it."

Sansa felt very cold, even though Daenerys' ladies had kept a fire burning continuously since she arrived. "I did what I had to do to survive, my queen," she said, deliberately dropping her gaze to keep her feelings hidden. The Lannisters had been her greatest enemies, but Sansa highly doubted that Daenerys had forgotten her own family's part in Robert's Rebellion. Perhaps she found Sansa's imprisonment a sort of recompense. 

"So I heard," the other woman said, more gently than Sansa would expect, which rather made her wonder exactly what Daenerys herself had overcome. She couldn't imagine the road from exile to the Iron Throne was easy. “Exile or not, I suppose women do not have it easy anywhere, in a world built for men.”

Sansa took a bite of her eggs to occupy her mouth instead of answering in an effort to buy time to compose her thoughts, but immediately regretted it when the dragon peppers lit her mouth aflame; she coughed and spluttered in surprise, swallowing as best she could before grasping her glass of honeymilk and gulping it down greedily, banking the fire. Her face burned with embarrassment as she hastily attempted to wipe her mouth clean, eyes watering still from the heat in her mouth, and she was startled when Daenerys began to laugh. It was not at all like Cersei's mocking laughter, or Joffrey's mad laugh; it was not at all as elegant as Daenerys always seemed, either, more of an unselfconscious bray than Margaery's practiced titter, and Sansa only felt more flustered by it. At the very least, Daenerys did not seem to be laughing  _ at  _ her.

"I apologize, Your Grace," she managed, voice a tad hoarse. Her tongue was still burning. 

Daenerys smiled, a truer smile than Sansa had seen from her, and for a moment it felt like they were not enemies at all, not Queen and subject, not uneasy allies - for a moment, it felt like they were just two girls, giggling together, and it caused an ache beneath Sansa's breastbone as it brought back memories of sneaking lemoncakes from the kitchen for her and Jeyne and Beth Cassel to share. For a moment it felt almost like playing in the snow with Arya, the innocence of girlhood. 

"Do not be sorry," Daenerys chuckled. "You are not the only ones to find dragon peppers unappetizing, my lady."

"I do not know how the Dornish eat them," Sansa admitted, sipping at her honeymilk as the sting began to fade. "I am rather impressed you can eat them, Your Grace."

Another smile, almost teasing. "Dragon peppers cannot harm a dragon, it seems."

"No," said Sansa. "I suppose not."

Daenerys leaned back in her chair, and Sansa found herself mirroring the action. “For all that Tyrion has told me of your story, I admit to being eager to meet you, Lady Stark. It appears we have much in common.”

Sansa took a deep breath. Petyr’s voice came into her mind again, whispering:  _ she is trying to build a relationship with you so that she might manipulate you.  _ Whether that was the case or not, Sansa knew that befriending Daenerys the best she could was the best option going ahead, if she wanted her people safe and fed this coming winter. “Much to our misfortune, Your Grace. If your story is anything like mine, then I am truly sorry.”

Daenerys’ mouth curled up slightly, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “Our misfortune, yes, but more the misfortune of those who did us wrong.” She tilted her head to the side. “We have both survived when everyone thought we would fall, have we not?”

“We have,” Sansa murmured, thinking of Petyr again; Petyr, dead at her feet, her sewing needle sticking out of his throat, his blood still staining the bottoms of her shoes as she fled down the mountain with Mya Stone’s help. She thought, too, of the others: Joffrey, dead at his wedding feast, and Cersei, her head now mounted above Casterly Rock beside the Kingslayer’s; the Boltons and Freys dead at the hands of the Manderlys. She wondered who Daenerys saw, when she closed her eyes, when she said  _ dracarys.  _ They had both faced the very worst that the world had to offer, and yet they had both survived. Perhaps…

Perhaps, together, they might usher in a newer, better world.

But she hardened her heart. She would not let silly, foolish sentiments about heroics fool her into trusting a woman who brought fire and blood down upon her enemies. It had been Sansa’s childish belief in the goodness of the world that had led to her own downfall. Dreaming about setting the world right was all well and good, until such a time as Daenerys decided that the world would be better off without Lord Rickon’s scheming older sister in charge of the North. Daenerys needed only to remove Sansa and replace Rickon’s warden with one of her own people - her Mormont, perhaps - and she would have no further competition in the North. Sansa would play whatever part Daenerys wanted her to, to keep that from happening.

The Targaryen woman was unaware of the turmoil in Sansa’s head. “I would like us to be friends,” she said, her mouth sweet and smiling. She seemed so sweet and innocent and kind, but Sansa had once thought those things of Cersei Lannister, too. 

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sansa said amiably, offering up her own smile. “Nothing would please me more.”

_ Just this once,  _ Sansa thought.  _ Let us both be women of our word.  _


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A step in the right direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I thought this was going to be a drabble? I do! Now it's shaping up to have, like, an actual plot. I want to thank you all for your positive feedback, it's kept me motivated to keep coming back to this story every night. I have a rough shape of what the next chapter will be like, so stay tuned!

Most of the next few days were filled by war councils and battle plans, so it was not until nearly a week after Daenerys’ arrival that the two of them found themselves in a private conversation again. 

A terrible storm had set in, darkening the sky nearly black even when the sun was highest in the sky, and Sansa had been running herself ragged making sure that her people were distributing supplies of blankets, food, and dry clothing out to as many as they could reach, and all across the North more and more people were fleeing to Winterfell in desperation as they ran out of food and water. Sansa feared what the weather and overpopulation might lead to - the last thing they needed was for disease to break out amongst not only the smallfolk but the soldiers who would be their only defense against the coming Others. At the very least, Daenerys’ supplies had aided in her efforts to keep everyone fed, but in the evenings she sat at her father’s desk and looked over the ledgers with despair; from everything Jon had said, this winter would be the longest and harshest anyone alive has ever seen, and Sansa was consumed with worry.

Even if they somehow managed to survive the Long Night, Sansa was not sure how they would survive the winter.

It was while she was pouring over the ledgers one afternoon that Daenerys found her. Wylla Manderly, who was acting as Sansa’s private secretary as well as attendant for the time being, entered the room and announced that Daenerys was outside and wished to speak to her, so Sansa gestured at her to let her in and stood to greet her. 

Wylla hesitated, staring at her worriedly. “Are you certain that you should be meeting with her in private, my lady? I can ask for Jory to stand guard.”

Sansa sighed. The Manderlys were as distrustful of Daenerys as the Mormonts, and while Sansa appreciated that her people were remaining on guard and that they were loyal enough to Sansa that they wanted to defend her, the frisson of mutual distrust and dislike between her people and Daenerys’ was not doing any of them favors. As Jon had said, they would all need to work together in an effort to survive both the coming war and the long and terrible winter to follow. “Queen Daenerys is hardly going to kill me in my family’s solar, Wylla. I assure you that I am perfectly safe in Her Grace’s company, and I do not wish her to think me unnecessarily aggressive. Please show her in.”

Wylla tipped her head politely, her green hair falling in graceful waves around her face as she crossed the room to let Daenerys in. Sansa walked around the table where she had laid out the ledgers as well as the correspondence and other news she had been attending to, straightening out her long, heavy skirts with nervous hands. The cold weather had her searching through her wardrobe for her warmest dresses, so today she was wearing a dark brown gown of heavy wool that hung in thick layers, with the bodice embroidered with tiny snowflakes in white and silver thread, and the deep neckline and hem trimmed with ermine fur. Additionally, she wore a necklace with a pendant of a wolf that hung around her neck on a ribbon of bright yellow, and her hair was carefully pinned up into a braided bun at the back of her head.

Daenerys came in with a smile, and she, too, had traded her silks and linens for warmer clothes; she wore a dress of the purest white wool with the sleeves and collar trimmed with white fox fur, the neckline deep and plunging to reveal the plum-colored silk of the shift she wore beneath it, held together with pearlescent silver buttons. She had left her hair loose and unadorned, brushed until it shone like silver silk in the light of the fire Sansa’s ladies had lit for her earlier in the day, and Sansa was startled by how much younger she appeared, her face heartbreakingly lovely where it was framed by silver locks. 

Sansa swallowed, dipping into a curtsey as Wylla left the room and closed the door behind her, leaving the two of them alone in the warm solar. 

“Lady Sansa,” Daenerys greeted after Sansa bid her welcome. “I had wondered where you disappeared to.”

"I was just looking over Winterfell's ledgers, Your Grace," she said demurely, gesturing behind her to the pile of parchment on the table. Daenerys hummed, walking further into the room, and Sansa tried not to fidget with discomfort at the invasion into her family's private solar. 

This room was the place of Sansa's childhood; there was the great hearth that Bran used to fall asleep in front of, and the chair in the corner where Sansa first learned how to sew at her mother's feet; there were the bite marks on the table legs from when the direwolves had first tested their teeth, and the candlestick Robb had once used to squash a spider after Sansa had tearfully begged him to; there was the old bookshelf with its chipped white paint that Arya had once gotten into great trouble for attempting to climb on top of, and on its shelves sat the great, heavy tomes that held the history of House Stark. This was the very same room every Stark since the very first Brandon had broken their fast with their families in, and where one day Rickon would sit at the head of the table while his children play. 

Having Daenerys here felt like the worst sort of violation against her family's memory, but Sansa bit her lip against saying a word against her. As queen, Daenerys had a right to go wherever she pleased, even if it burned Sansa's insides to cede even an inch. 

Sansa stood in silence as Daenerys walked around and inspected the room, eventually coming to a stop to gaze up at the tapestry that hung on the wall directly across from the fireplace. "This is quite beautiful," the queen marveled.

Sansa came up to stand at her side, tilting her head back. "It is," she agreed.

The tapestry was probably as old as Winterfell itself, for Sansa could not remember a time where it did not hang right where it was. It was large, and vibrant, woven from threads of a thousand different colors, depicting the godswood at sunset; red and gold and orange hues fading into the rich purple-blue of the night sky speckled with stars, and before it a magnificent grove of white weirwood trees, their leaves as red as blood, and the face of the heart tree seemed eerily alive. As a child, the face had seemed frightening to Sansa. Now it was a comfort - her father’s gods watching over her where her father could not. 

Daenerys turned to look at her. “I noticed that you also have a sept here at Winterfell. Do many Northerners keep to the Seven as well as your old gods?”

Sansa shook her head. “Hardly any at all, actually. My father had it specially built for my mother, who was devoutly faithful to the Seven.” She paused, one hand coming up to rub at the hollow place between her breasts, as if to quell the ache that came with speaking of her mother. “As a child, I preferred my mother’s gods, but lately…” She looked back up at the woven face of the heart tree. “I suppose being back in Winterfell has made me appreciate my father’s faith in a way I couldn’t when I was younger.”

“Do you pray often?” Daenerys asked softly.

Sansa cleared her throat, where a lump had formed. “No,” she murmured. “Not as often as I ought to, I suppose. My father used to pray every day, and my mother…”

In truth, she had not even stepped into the sept since she returned home. The building had sustained quite a lot of damage during Theon’s rebellion - the Ironborn considered the Seven an affront to their Drowned God - and what had escaped their wrath had fallen victim to the Boltons. When Sansa returned with the Manderlys, she had concentrated her rebuilding efforts on what she considered the most important - the living spaces and the food stores and the towers and walls they would need to defend themselves. The sept, along with the Library Tower and other less important structures, she had decided could wait for another day, when they had more coin and less worries. But that was not the only reason she had not entered the sept since her return; her mother’s ghost felt so present as it was that Sansa could not make herself so much as cross the threshold and see the wreckage her enemies had made of her mother’s sacred place. When she did pray, it was in the godswood.

Daenerys seemed to know the despair her thoughts had turned to, and picked up the conversation for her. “I wish I could know if my own mother was faithful,” she said. “I know so little of her, in truth.”

Sansa tried to rack her brains to think of anything she knew about Rhaella Targaryen to offer Daenerys, but couldn’t remember ever truly knowing much about the former queen. “I am sure she would have taught you the faith, as my mother did, had she been there to raise you.” Sansa said hesitantly. 

Daenerys smiled wryly. “Yes, a great deal many things would be different, if my mother had lived.” She sighed, and Sansa noticed she was turning the pearl ring she wore around and around where it sat on her left forefinger. Perhaps she was not the only one desperate to make a good impression, she thought. Perhaps she was not the only one who was nervous here, though it was hard for Sansa to imagine that someone as powerful and revered as the Dragon Queen could be _nervous._ “I’ve been told that if I wish to make a good impression on my people that I need to learn about the Seven and the faith, but I’ve never had any education on Westeros’ faith. My brother never cared for the gods, and in Essos I was more concerned with surviving amongst the Dothraki, so I adhered to their religion.” She pursed her lips. “There are many things I _should_ know, according to my advisors, and yet not one of them had offered to help me acquire such knowledge.”

Sansa was thoughtful for a moment. “If you wish, I have a copy of the Seven-Pointed Star that you could borrow,” she offered, “as well as other books. History, politics, geography, religion, we have many, for my parents wished for their children to be well learned. The Library Tower saw some damage during the war, but my castellan has told me that most of the tomes remain untouched.” 

Daenerys looked faintly startled. “I would like that,” she said, gazing at Sansa with some unfathomable look in her purple eyes, but Sansa sensed it was not a bad look. “Are you well read, Lady Sansa?”

“I used to imagine so,” Sansa said, flushing slightly at being held in Daenerys’ gaze. “But for all that I have learned in life, I’ve come to realize that the most important things cannot be found in books, but in experience. I used to think I knew so much, before I left home.”

“The folly of children,” Daenerys agreed. “We all want to believe we know everything, until the day we realize that we know nothing at all.”

Sansa wondered when Daenerys learned the ugly truth of the world; for her, it had been the day her father was executed - the day she learned that life was not a song nor a story, that there were no heroes and no guarantees that everything would work out and that the good people would live happily ever after while the wicked reaped what they sewed. She had been so terribly naïve until that day, and she knew it was because she had been such a sheltered child. Perhaps Daenerys had always known; she had never had the luxury of being sheltered, not growing up in exile, not growing up as one of the last Targaryens. Perhaps it had not been until the day she was forced into marriage that she had left the innocence of childhood. Perhaps it was the moment she hatched her dragons and stepped into a new world. 

“It is only when we admit to knowing nothing that we can truly begin to learn,” Sansa told her, parroting something Petyr had often told her. He had always wanted her to believe she was simple, and that he was the only one who could teach her what she needed to know. On the worst days, Sansa sometimes wondered if there was a certain amount of truth to the claim.

Daenerys chuckled. “Sounds as if you have spent a great deal of time with Tyrion.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow. “Oh, has he told you the one about his mind needing books like a sword needs a whetstone?”

At that, Daenerys outright laughed. “Oh, a time or two,” she said with a wide grin, eyes shining with humor, and Sansa felt another blush crawl up her face. “To his credit,” she continued, more thoughtfully, “if more lords cared for books over swords, the world might not be such a sorry place.”

“Or we would only have smarter enemies,” Sansa pointed out. Petyr had been among the smartest men Sansa had ever known, and it was what had given him the ability to play the people around him like others play cyvasse. His folly - and, Sansa rather suspected, Tyrion’s folly as well - was believing that he was the smartest person alive, and that no one else could ever outsmart him; certainly not a scared little girl who only wanted to go home. 

“A good point,” Daenerys acknowledged. “I was going to take my supper in my room, but mayhaps we might eat together here? I’ve not much experience with ledgers and running castles myself, and I should think there’s a great deal to be learned before I go back to the Red Keep.” She pursed her lips. 

Sansa glanced back at the table. It was not really the done thing, inviting outsiders into a room that was meant for Starks and Starks alone, and she was not entirely sure that she liked the idea of Daenerys being privy to the inner workings of Winterfell. The room already felt tainted knowing as she did how Ramsay Snow had supped at this very table. (There were certain rooms in Winterfell that Jeyne refused to enter. That was how Sansa knew where the taint was strongest.) 

On the other hand, fostering this hesitant friendship between Daenerys and herself seemed more important than petty grievances against sharing a living space. 

And Sansa had missed sharing a meal with someone she could laugh with. 

“I would like that, Your Grace,” Sansa said. “I shall tell my ladies to serve our food here.”

Daenerys clapped her hands together. “Excellent!” Her smile turned sly. “I shall tell _my_ ladies to bring with them the good pear wine. Have you ever tasted Essosi wine, Lady Sansa? I find I enjoy it a great deal more than your Arbor Gold.”

“I have not, Your Grace,” Sansa said, stepping aside so the other woman could move around the table.

As she watched Daenerys take her place at the head of the table, another lump formed in Sansa’s throat, and she briefly wondered what her grandfather Rickard would think of her inviting the Mad King’s daughter into the very seat he had supped at. She wondered what her father would think, inviting Rhaegar Targaryen’s sister into the room where Lyanna Stark had once learned her letters. 

_I am doing this for our family,_ she said to their ghosts in her mind. _I am doing this for the North._

She had to believe that it would all be worth it in the end. 

* * *

The next day she found herself being awakened far earlier than she would have liked, her ladies coming into her room in a tizzy to inform her that Lord Karstark had requested an urgent meeting.

“You must dress, my lady,” Sarra said brusquely, drawing the covers away from her and making Sansa groan as the cold air rushed over her. Across the room Brynn and Alarra were lighting a fire, but the deep chill of winter still lingered in the air as Sansa forced her tired body into motion.

Jeyne came up to her with a brush in hand, and Sansa sat and watched as Delia threw open her wardrobe and began to examine her dresses. “The green one today, my lady?” Delia asked as Jeyne began to plait her hair. 

“Certainly,” Sansa said, stifling a yawn with her hand.

She had long since grown out of the dresses she had left behind when she went south, and so her wardrobe mostly consisted of dresses that had been gifted to her by Wylla and Wynafryd and the Mormont sisters, as well as whatever Sansa could find that had belonged to her mother, for Sansa had flatly refused to wear any articles the Boltons left behind. The dress Delia chose for today was one that had belonged to Wylla; it was a heavy velvet dyed a lush forest green with wool padding for extra warmth, and the skirt and long sleeves had scales sewn onto them in silks of Manderly aquamarine. Jeyne pulled her hair back into an elegant fishtail braid, and stuck a string of freshwater pearls that Sansa remembered her mother favoring around her throat as Delia handed her the matching earrings. 

“Did Lord Karstark say what he wanted to speak about?” Sansa asked, as Sarra pinched and rubbed some color into her cheeks and Brynn laced her feet into her freshly cleaned boots. The heavy brown leather clashed with the finery Sansa wore, but there was really nothing else one could wear around the muddy slush that filled Winterfell’s courtyards.

Sarra scoffed. “As if any man tells us their business.”

“He seemed upset,” Alarra offered as she straightened up Sansa’s bedding.

Sansa pursed her lips. “Angry?”

“Isn’t he always?” Alarra sighed.

She wasn’t wrong. When Sansa had come back to Winterfell, Harrion Karstark had been amongst those who were liberated after being kept hostage by the Boltons. Sansa had been unsure of what to do with the Karstark heir after Robb had executed Lord Rickard and Lord Arnolf had been executed for conspiring with the Boltons. She had worried she might have to keep Harrion as a hostage herself, but he had dutifully bent the knee and sworn undying loyalty to House Stark for her part in rescuing him from the Boltons, and with his sister married into the Thenns, Sansa had rightly assumed that Harrion’s loyalty could be won by giving him back the Karhold lordship. Ever since, Harrion Karstark had been amongst her most ardent and outspoken supporters, but the other Northerners kept a gimlet eye on the man out of distrust, and there were still some who thought that the Karhold should instead be gifted to a more loyal family. Harrion chafed at the lack of respect for the Karstark name, but he had also remained staunchly honorable. 

He was also one of those most vehemently opposed to Southern rule, and had argued against declaring for Daenerys. Sansa could take a few guesses as to what he wanted to discuss. 

She stood and dismissed her ladies, exiting her room and heading for her father’s private office which she used for official business. 

Jory fell into step beside her. “Do you want me in there with you?” 

Sansa sighed again. Her head still felt heavy with sleep, and she thought longingly of her warm bed. “No. Lord Karstark is a hotheaded man, but he is all bluster and no bite. He wouldn’t dare try anything anyways, not while he’s still trying to rebuild his family’s reputation.”

Jory just shrugged. “If you need us, Aly and I are only a shout away.”

Sansa stopped outside the entrance to the office, and sure enough Alysane Mormont was casually leaning against the wall beside the door. She managed a tired smile. “I appreciate that.”

Aly gestured towards the room. “Good luck with that one,” she said gruffly. “The little lordling’s spitting mad.”

Sansa grimaced. “My thanks for the warning.”

Straightening her spine, she walked into the room.

The office - which would always, in her heart, be Ned Stark’s office - was not a large space, just a barebones room with a polished wooden desk and lamps hung on every wall to give optimal lighting, and behind the desk the stone wall bore a carving of a direwolf’s snarling face. Immediately upon entering, Lord Karstark whirled around to face her, his face ruddy and his forehead damp with sweat. He had clearly been in here for a while, working himself up, and no doubt disliked waiting for her, but Sansa felt the man could learn some patience.

He opened his mouth, but Sansa cut him off. “Lord Karstark,” she said, with a forceful calm. He shut his mouth, jaw clenching as she slowly crossed the room and sat at the desk without ever taking her eyes off of the man. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your unexpected company? I was not aware that you had left the Karhold.”

“My lady,” the young lord began, voice tight, “I have heard such distressing rumors that they prompted me to seek you out.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Rumors, my lord?”

His face hardened. “I have heard from my men that you and the Targaryen woman have been in marriage talks, and that she means to marry you off to the Imp so that she might have spies overlooking the North.”

“Daenerys Targaryen,” Sansa said firmly, “is the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, _my lord,_ and you will address her with due respect.”

His grey eyes narrow. The first time they met, Sansa had been struck by his resemblance to Jon Snow, for the Karstarks were all descendants of Karlon Stark and so bore a striking similarity to the Stark look, but this man lacked all the honor and candor that made Jon _Jon_ , and Sansa was rapidly growing tired of dealing with him. “Lady Stark, surely you can see how disastrous this alliance is for us -”

She cuts him off. “I can assure you, Lord Karstark, that facing the White Walkers without the help of Her Grace and her dragons would be far, far more disastrous. Would you have our people fall because your pride cannot suffer you to bend the knee to a Targaryen?”

“Where is _your_ pride, Lady Stark?” he demanded, and Sansa went rigid at the hostility in his voice, fear pooling in her stomach against her will. “It was your brother who declared that the North would never bend the knee to the Iron Throne again, was it not? It was King Robb who died for our independence. What would he say if he saw his sister consorting with the Mad King’s daughter?”

“Robb,” she said, refusing to let her voice break, “would agree that setting aside our differences for the good of the North is far more important than clinging to bad blood, and I believe that you will find that those who sought to subjugate Robb and the North are dead and gone, in no small part because of Queen Daenerys. Torrhen Stark pledged his allegiance to House Targaryen to protect his people, and I will not have it be said that I did any less.” She stood up, drawing herself to her full height and raising her chin. “Winter is coming, Lord Harrion. I would have us survive it, by any means necessary.”

“So you plan to marry the Imp?” he asked.

“I have not planned anything,” Sansa said coldly, “and it would not be your business if I did. I thank you for your company, my lord, but I believe it is time for you to go back to the Karhold.”

He opened his mouth to argue just as the door swung open in perfect timing, and Jory smiled at Harrion Karstark with all of her teeth; she had yet to meet a Mormont who was anything less than a bear. “Her ladyship bid you leave, my lord,” she said pleasantly. “I would not refuse, or you may find Winterfell lacking in hospitality the next time you deign to gift us with your presence.”

Karstark left, anger in the set of his shoulders, without so much as a backward glance, Jory half a step behind him with her hand resting on the pommel of her sword, and Sansa let out a long, weary breath and sat back down, tingling all over with adrenaline. The scars on her back itched. 

Aly poked her head into the room. “Alright, m’lady?”

“Alright,” she said quietly. “Thank you, Aly.”

The other woman nodded, and shut the door, leaving Sansa alone with her thoughts. She sat there in silence, rubbing her temples as she wondered how many others agreed with Lord Karstark. She wondered how long it would be until the tensions between their people led to violence, and how long it would be until Daenerys was forced to show her strength with dragonfire and steel; her army, at full strength, vastly outnumbered the Northern cavalry, and Sansa worried that they may just kill each other before the White Walkers even get the chance. 

* * *

She took her morning meal alone in the office, and was just heading out to wake Rickon when Daenerys found her. Dressed in a simple, pale pink dress of crushed velvet beneath a fur cloak, her hair weaved with little bronze bells, she looked like the maiden reborn, and Sansa felt a brief stab of envy that wherever she went, Daenerys was the most beautiful person in the room. 

“Lady Stark,” she said, smiling warmly. “I was wondering if you might like to join me on my walk.”

What Sansa wanted was a hot bath and her bed, but she only offered Daenerys a smile in response. “Of course, Your Grace.”

Daenerys smiled again and took her arm, and the two of them made their way out into the main courtyard. Sansa was startled to notice that the dark storm had broken, and bright sunlight shone down on them, sparkling off the fresh snow like glittering diamonds and making the castle look like something from one of Old Nan’s fairytales. 

They walked in silence for a time, taking in the sights and leaving a trail of footprints in the snow, until Daenerys spoke again. “I heard about Lord Karstark and his… complaints.”

Sansa tensed slightly. “I can assure you that Lord Karstark does not speak for all of us, Your Grace, and I have sent him home with a warning.”

Daenerys hummed. “So I was told.” She glanced at Sansa. “I have also heard that it was you yourself who chose to seek my help and bend the knee, and that your lords are less than pleased with your decision.”

Sansa sighed. “It’s true that some of my lords are reluctant to submit to southern rule again, but I hope in time that they will see that every choice I make is for the good of the North.” She paused for a moment, flicking her gaze briefly at Daenerys, who now had a crown of white snow melting in her hair. “They _will_ see differently, when it is your dragons who save them from the monsters beyond the Wall, and when they remember it is the food you brought that keeps their children fed.”

“I wanted to thank you for your loyalty,” Daenerys said.

Sansa didn’t quite know what to say to that. Being loyal was hardly a choice, at this point - how could you be anything but loyal to those who could have you dead in a heartbeat? It was not love or loyalty that bent Torrhen Stark’s knee three hundred years ago. It was fear. True enough, Daenerys had been nothing but kind and warm, but the Lannisters had been kind, once, in their own way, and had not shown their hand until it was far too late. As Lady Stark and Warden of the North, it was Sansa’s duty to protect her people as best as she could, and that meant loyalty to dragons - but never blind loyalty.

It had been her father’s loyalty as well as his honor that had gotten him killed. If Sansa wanted her and Rickon to survive, she must play this game, and never be caught unaware. 

“I should be thanking you,” she settled on. “The food and supplies you brought with you has been invaluable.”

“I am the Protector of the Realm as well as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,” Daenerys reminded her. “It is my duty to help the people.” She stopped walking, and her face became deadly serious as she held Sansa’s gaze. “Westeros has fallen from the powerful kingdom Aegon and his sisters created, in part because of my own blood. I do not want to be just another conqueror, Lady Sansa. I want to leave the world a better place than the wreckage we were born into. I want our people to be strong again, for Westeros to be strong again, and if that means doing my utmost to win over all the lords of Westeros who would rather I have died in exile, than I shall.”

Sansa swallowed. It sounded like a beautiful dream, but she knew that there was a great deal of difference between intention and execution. “It will not be an easy road, Your Grace,” she said, for she knew well how men looked upon women with power.

Daenerys smiled. “I have never been one for the easy path, my lady.”

It was, Sansa thought, a step in the right direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to emphasize that this is a sloooow burn. But they'll get there!


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Daenerys find themselves growing closer, and Sansa has a heart to heart with Jeyne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, first of all I am very sorry about the unexpectedly long wait. If you haven't guessed by the way I write, I'm American, and the stress of the election made it impossible for me to concentrate on writing, on top of which I've been busy with my courses and cleaning my house and haven't had as much time to write, but hopefully I'll have more time now to finish this story. I had a very difficult time wrestling this chapter into being and I'm still not entirely sure that I'm happy with it, but if I have to keep staring at the same words for any longer, I'm going to lose my mind. Second of all, I just wanted to thank all you lovely readers out there for such wonderful feedback, you've really kept me motivated to keep working on this even when I wanted to give up. And finally, I'm not sure that this story will be much longer than one or two more chapters, as I never intended it to be this long in the first place. This was originally planned to be a little ficlet that quickly got out of control. I'm not even sure where I would take this story if it went any longer, since I don't really think I'm capable of writing the kind of plot that would obviously come next with the Long Night and the resulting politics, so it will probably be somewhat open ended, but rest assured I won't leave an unhappy ending. 
> 
> I'd like to mention a quick trigger warning for very, very vague implications of sexual abuse between Petyr and Sansa, but it is in no way detailed and only briefly touched upon, left mostly open for interpretation.

Time passed, and they readied themselves for war. News came from the Wall, report after report from Jon and someone called Samwell, and Sansa and Daenerys sat awake all hours of the night with their advisors and Daenerys’ generals, making preparations. Daenerys had a sound mind for battle, having lived through multiple wars and sieges herself, and Sansa sometimes looked upon her, hunched over maps of the far North sent to them by Jon and the Wildlings, and saw in her all who came before her, all she carried in her blood; Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters, Jaehaerys the Conciliator and Jaehaerys the II who ended the last Blackfyre Rebellion; Rhaenyra who fought for her birthright and Alicent Hightower who crowned her rival, Daeron the Young Dragon and Baelor Breakspear, Good Queen Alysanne and Daena the Defiant. House Targaryen had dazzled Westeros for nearly three centuries, and all of it boiled down to this one small, powerful woman, who refused to let a single council be held without her. 

She had worthy advisors, too, chief among them Barristan the Bold, who was starting to look his age but was still more than capable of fighting another war. It was said that Barristan Selmy had been the one to end the False Dragon’s rebellion. When Daenerys had come to Westeros, she had found not only the Lannisters and Baratheons but a boy-man claiming to be Prince Rhaegar’s son, who miraculously survived the Sack of King’s Landing and was raised in exile, just as Daenerys was. Few had believed the unlikely claim, but the man had had the backing of the Golden Company and Dorne both, and Daenerys had reluctantly agreed to at least speak with him, if only to hear his claim. They were, after all, a family, if his story was true.

What went wrong, Sansa still did not know the whole story. Most agreed that the would-be Prince had foolishly tried to claim one of Daenerys’ dragons and burned for it, but some said Daenerys had used witchcraft to subdue him. Whatever happened, it eventually came out that Aegon was a Blackfyre by birth, some descendant of Maelys the Monstrous, and all of his plans had crumbled into nothing when he proved as flammable as the rest of his bloodline. The Golden Company had been subdued, but Daenerys had nearly died when Jon Connington plunged a knife into her shoulder in his rage and grief over watching his foster son burn, and it had been Ser Barristan who slew the man as he had slewn Maelys three decades earlier. Daenerys had lived, but only just, and her rage over the Golden Company slaying the last of her bloodriders had fueled her rampage upon the Lannisters. 

After their fall from favor, the Martells had retreated back to Dorne to lick their wounds, and had not been heard from since. With the death of Prince Doran and Prince Quentyn, Princess Arianne had taken over as the Ruler of Dorne, and things had been quiet from that quarter ever since. After facing such a devastating defeat at Daenerys’ hands, the living Martells were doing their best to keep their heads down. Princess Arianne had declared her support for Queen Daenerys over the Lannisters, for their hatred for the Lannisters burned as bright as ever, and Daenerys had allowed them to remain in power, but they all knew that any stirrings of rebellion would mean the final fall of the Dornish family. 

Sansa was sure that every loss had taught Daenerys something, and the Queen was proving herself more than worthy as they laid out their battle plans for fighting the Others. Sansa herself did not have such a head for war and battle, but she still attended every council, sitting with her own advisors and conferring on the best path North, all the strengths and weaknesses her men had, all the supplies they could scrounge up, all the men they had at their disposal. Galbart Glover, Maege Mormont, and Wendell Manderly were proving themselves capable leaders, and the relations between their peoples had slowly shifted towards the positive as the North showed Daenerys’ armies that they were not weak, nor savages, nor cowardly. They would likely never see eye to eye, but Sansa was at least hopeful that when the day came for the final fight, they would be able to fight side by side without problems. 

Sansa was not as troubled as she had been about the clash of their people. No, what troubled her most was that Daenerys planned to lead their people against the Others herself. It was not terribly surprising, as Daenerys had led her invasion of Westeros upon dragonback, but still it consumed her with worry, for if Daenerys was to die, then all Seven Hells would break out across Westeros; they had finally ended the war for the Iron Throne, and Sansa worried that another war would finally shatter what is left of Westeros - certainly it would be the death knell of the North, which had only just begun to recover from the War of the Five Kings, as the Maesters were beginning to call it. 

It was something that she and Daenerys debated about, during their private meetings, since Sansa was not so foolish as to challenge Daenerys in front of either of their men. Sansa urged Daenerys to choose someone else to lead the armies, but Daenerys was unyielding. 

“I am the Protector of the Realm,” she said in a hard voice, over their late supper of seared white fish and cold vegetable soup, jugs of ale to warm their bellies resting beside the dish of salty White Harbor rolls. “It is my duty to lead the men as any King would. My dragons will obey no one but myself, and I will not let it be said that I am a frightened girl, cowering behind her men.”

“No,” Sansa said wearily. She understood the problem - if the men discovered that they were capable of leading in Daenerys’ name, they might decide that they did not need Daenerys herself. What was it her father used to say? _The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword._ Daenerys would not let anyone slay the Night’s King in her name. 

(There was a voice in Sansa’s head, whispering soft and poisonous as Petyr’s lips against her skin, that wondered what might be gained by Daenerys’ death, but she pushed such treasonous thoughts away, shuddering deep in her bones. Dead and gone for months on end, and Petyr’s rot still lived inside of her, slinking through her blood like a sickness. There were nights when she would lie awake for hours, trembling in her bedsheets, certain that he would walk through the door to commend her for all that she had done; certain he would claim it all as his own, as he had claimed her so many times.)

“We would all pay the price if you were to die, Your Grace,” she told Daenerys, voice tight. 

Daenerys regarded her with a curious look. “Are you worried for me, Lady Sansa?”

“I worry for everyone, my queen,” said Sansa, and it was the truth. What would happen to the North, if they lost all of their remaining men? What would happen if the dragons died, and Daenerys no longer had the threat of fire and blood to make her enemies kneel? What would happen to Rickon, if Sansa died? Dreadful thoughts consumed her at all hours, and her head constantly ached from all the stress. 

“As do I,” said Daenerys, “which is why I will trust no one to fight in my stead.”

“I understand that,” Sansa conceded, tearing off pieces of her roll. “You are very brave, Your Grace.”

Daenerys laughed. “Trial by fire, my lady. If I was not brave, I would have perished long ago in the Dothraki sea.”

_And we would have no hope at all._

“Let us talk of happier things,” Daenerys declared, and picked up her ale. “Now,” she said, “tell me, what is this I’ve heard about hot springs in Winterfell?”

* * *

Sansa had been so busy with war councils lately that she had not had much time for luxuries like stitching or long baths, but she made a point to set aside at least an hour a week to sit with Jeyne and embroider, as they used to in their youth. It was a chance for the two of them to renew their friendship, and to talk about the state of Winterfell away from prying eyes, while also giving them a break from the stresses of their work. 

It was on such an occasion that she entered her sitting room to greet Jeyne, only to find her oldest friend entwined with Jory. Jeyne was seated in her cushion, and Jory was kneeling in front of her, Jeyne’s long, crooked fingers tangled in Jory’s braid as the guard held her scarred face in her hands and kissed her, their mouths slow and gentle, their moans audible even above the crackle of the fire.

“Oh!” Sansa said, shocked, nearly dropping the dress she had brought along to embroider. 

The two women tore away from each other, Jory springing to her feet and putting several paces of distance between herself and Jeyne, color springing to both of their cheeks as they noticed Sansa for the first time.

“I - my lady,” Jeyne stuttered, something horribly like fear flickering in her brown eyes, and Jory held herself very rigidly as she edged towards the door. 

“It’s quite alright,” said Sansa hastily, stepping aside so Jory could reach the door. “It’s perfectly alright.”

“My lady,” Jory said quietly, dipping in a slight bow, averting her gaze as she left to guard the entrance to the sitting room.

Sansa turned back to Jeyne, who looked small and nervous in her seat. Hesitantly, Sansa went over and sat beside her. “Jeyne -” she said, but was cut off.

“We weren’t doing anything improper, really,” her lady said, shaky, and Sansa hated the fear in her voice. She had never wanted Jeyne to be afraid ever again. “I swear, my lady -”

“Jeyne,” Sansa interrupted, and set aside her dress to take Jeyne’s hands; several of her fingers were crooked from being broken, and she was missing the tips of two fingers from frostbite, but they did not shake at all when Sansa held them. “Please, lay your fears aside. I am not offended, nor angry.” She swallowed, and her face felt absurdly warm. Despite having been married twice, Sansa had never found herself comfortable discussing bedroom things, something Harry had always found amusing. “You are my friend and my lady, and what you do with yourself is your business. Any… _secrets_ that you might have are safe with me.”

Jeyne looked at her for a long, long moment before she began to relax, tension unwinding from her shoulders. “My thanks, my lady,” she whispers.

Sansa squeezed her hands very gently. “There is nothing to thank me for,” she told her firmly. “I am…” she paused for a moment, looking for words. “I am happy for you, if you have found someone to make you happy.”

“I have,” Jeyne said, her cheeks turning pink. 

Sansa smiled. “Then I _am_ happy.”

Sansa let go of her hands, and they both turned to their embroidery. Jeyne was working on the sleeves of a pale green dress, embroidering long, trailing vines of ivy along the seams, and it occurred to Sansa that green was the Mormont color. Sansa herself had with her an old gown of her mothers, a heavy Tully maroon brocade with golden embroidery, and she was fixing some of the finer details that had been damaged by time and by wear. Embroidery was something Sansa could do in her sleep, and the familiarity of the hand movements, the repetitiveness, it was something close to meditation for her, and she could feel a week’s worth of tension begin to unknot in her back. 

Jeyne did not seem to know what to say, or perhaps she was still nervous, but something began to plague Sansa’s mind that she eventually gave voice to. “Jeyne?” she asked.

Her friend looked up. “My lady?”

“Is it -” she swallowed, heart clenching in her chest. “Is it because of what you went through, that you chose - that you chose a woman?”

Jeyne bit her lip. “No,” she admitted, after a moment. “No, I think that… I think that it’s always been women.” She looked back down at her stitching, fiddling with her thread. “I think… Well, there was a time when I would have given anything for a look from you, when we were girls.”

Sansa jolted. “From me?” There had been, she suddenly recalled, some rather innocent kisses, and it was not as if Sansa didn’t know that women could be attracted to other women - Margaery had not been terribly discreet, in King’s Landing with all of her ‘attendants’ - nor was it that Sansa was unfamiliar with those sort of desires and pursuits on her own part, but she had never realized that Jeyne’s affection for her might run deeper than friendship. She had not even realized that Jeyne might find women beautiful in the way that Sansa did. 

Jeyne blushed brightly. “You were my very best friend, and everything I wanted to be as a girl,” she admitted, laughing a little. She caught sight of Sansa’s face and blushed even harder. “Oh please, don’t worry. I haven’t thought of you in such a way in a long time. Jory is… Jory is wonderful to me, and I quite adore her.”

“Oh,” said Sansa, unsure of what to say. They passed another few moments in near silence, only the sound of fabric rustling filling the room, before Sansa spoke again. “May I ask - why Jory?”

Jeyne smiled at her. “She makes me feel brave.”

* * *

Since the day of her meeting with Lord Karstark, their walks had become routine, and over the next month, Sansa found herself walking the grounds of Winterfell on Daenerys’ arm nearly every day, weather permitting. She had not had much chance since her return to explore what remained, but now she had ample opportunity. Growing up, all she had ever wanted was to leave Winterfell and its dreariness, and only now was she capable of seeing the beauty in its simplicity, in its strength, in its austerity. There was still the black stain that the Ironborn and Boltons had left when they came across crumbled walls or spotted dried, frozen blood where the snow melted away, but for the most part, the two women were able to walk through the many stone courtyards of Sansa’s youth without fuss.

Daenerys was endlessly intrigued by how different the North was compared to the South and the Essosi cities she had grown up in, and Sansa enjoyed extolling Northern customs and culture whenever she had the chance; there was something about the way Daenerys’ face brightened with curiosity that reminded Sansa sharply of Arya in their youth, how excitable and adventurous her little sister had been. It had been a source of never-ending frustration to Sansa as a child that her only sister preferred adventure and running through the mud after Robb and Jon than learning the more traditional feminine skills that Sansa enjoyed like sewing or playing the harp, but thinking on it now gave her a queer ache of nostalgia. In her dreams of the past, there were times when Sansa would put down her embroidery and take Arya’s hand to run and play with her instead, and every time Sansa would wake with a deep chasm in her heart that took the shape of all those lost childhood chances. 

Sansa had a chance, now, with Daenerys, to take pleasure in things she would have scoffed at as a young girl. And judging by how the weight on the queen’s shoulders seemed to melt away during the scant free time they allotted themselves, it was not only Sansa who had missed out on childhood adventures, on childish delights. Before Sansa had known her, she would never have guessed that Queen Daenerys Targaryen would enjoy wading through banks of muddy snow or catching snowflakes on her tongue, would not have thought that any royal woman would take pleasure in watching the children of Winterfell have snowball fights, let alone in _joining_ those fights. 

If Sansa was being generous, she would say that she encouraged the childish behavior because it did them good to show the North that Daenerys Targaryen was not just the Mother of Dragons but the Mother of the Realm, that she was not just a powerful queen but a kind, sweet woman who adored children, who walked amongst the smallfolk of the North without arrogance or disdain. It humanized her, made her approachable, shaped her image into someone they could pledge their loyalty to without fear. If Sansa was being honest, she would say that she encouraged such behavior because she enjoyed it. 

She supposed it was only fair that they found something to enjoy. The world may very well still end - how could it be wrong to find something to smile about as they edged closer and closer to their possible doom?

“Your thoughts have turned maudlin again,” Daenerys said, interrupting her musing. Today they were in the Library Tower, sitting before the fire as their clothing dried after being caught in a sudden downpour during their walk. Sansa was seated on the ground, lounging on her damp cloak as their boots and stockings dried, while Daenerys was perched on a long chair, silver hair still dripping rainwater to the floor as she idly paged through a tome of poetry older than Aegon I. 

Sansa propped herself up on one elbow. “Are they?” she asked. “And how can you tell?”

Daenerys smiled down at her. “You get this look upon your face whenever you disappear into your thoughts, gazing far too long into the fire.”

“I was not aware you could tell,” Sansa said, sitting up straighter as she tugged irritably at the front of her gown, today a confection of dark cream with pale blue trim. The wet rain had made the wool dress cling to her like a second skin, and Sansa kept struggling to pull the neckline higher as the weight of the water kept pulling it down and exposing far more of her chest than Sansa was comfortable with, the tops of her breasts peeking out above her corset. “You have keen eyes, Your Grace.”

“Hm,” Daenerys said, those keen violet eyes fixed on Sansa’s hands, and when Sansa looked up she thought she saw a faint blush to her cheeks as she hastily looked back down at her book. The fire made the room very warm indeed, and the back of her neck was hot from how close she sat to the hearth. 

The two of them had been growing a lot closer after the last month of getting to know one another, but Sansa worried that it was just another tactic of manipulation, one that Sansa was far too accustomed to; it was Petyr’s favorite trick, to pretend to be kind, his behavior switching back and forth from kindly surrogate father to a man who desired to bed her depending on the situation, and it was a ploy Cersei had used quite often - and the Tyrells, too, if Sansa’s suspicions about Olenna’s intentions for her after Joffrey’s murder were true. _You catch more flies with honey_ , Petyr would say when he urged her to seduce Harry. 

( _I was a thirteen year old child_ , Sansa thought. _How would I know how to seduce anyone?)_

If Daenerys meant to manipulate her by being her friend, then she was far better at it than Cersei Lannister. Better than Margaery, even, perhaps even better than Petyr. Sansa still could not parse out Daenerys’ intentions, nor her end goal beyond winning the War for the Dawn and keeping herself on the Iron Throne. Some days, Sansa felt that Daenerys understood her better than anyone else ever had, and some days she felt certain that it was all a part of Daenerys’ grand scheme, whether she desired to lull Sansa into a false sense of security before removing her from power, or perhaps designed to see her married to Tyrion again just as her lords feared, or something else Sansa could not yet see, and Sansa had long since grown tired of playing this game, though of course she had, as ever, very little choice in the matter. 

Still, there were times when she would look into Daenerys’ eyes and feel more seen than she ever had in her life. The day they had discussed their previous marriages, and the day they had gotten tipsy on Daenerys’ favorite pear wine and cried together over their losses - it felt far more real than any of Petyr and Cersei or Margaery’s manipulations ever had, and Sansa feared what it all might mean. 

She was not blind. She knew Daenerys was attracted to her, but whether it was a genuine attraction or simply a result of the queen trying to possess her, Sansa was not certain. More uncertainly, Sansa could not say if she truly desired Daenerys back. Could you really desire someone who held such power over you? Could you want someone who controlled your very fate? Daenerys might be the most beautiful person Sansa had ever met, but she had long abandoned her idealization of such things. Sansa knew that being wanted because of who you were, and being wanted because you were beautiful were two very different things. Daenerys had an eye for beauty, judging by the way she surrounded herself with beautiful courtiers, rode upon beautiful steeds, wore the most beautiful dresses and jewels. Sansa had no desire to be another possession, not again. 

(But she could not control the things she dreamt of, kisses in the dark, touches wanted and touches feared. There had been the Hound, and there had been Petyr, and there had been Harry, but there had also been Margaery and her sweet gaze and venomous lips, and Shae’s cool hands as she brushed Sansa’s hair, and lovely Mya with her warm hands and gentle heart. There had been the days in her youth, nearly forgotten, of trading innocent, childish kisses with Jeyne after catching Theon kissing one of the maids and growing curious; there had been Elinor Tyrell and her pleasant company during the long hours she would spend hawking with Margaery. And now there were dreams of purple eyes, of hair like starlight, of lips like berry wine, and sometimes Sansa would wake flushed and panting in the night, staring up at the canopy and wishing she was more unsettled than she was.)

She didn’t see how any distraction as such could benefit them, anyways. The world never looked kindly upon women who followed their desires, and Daenerys and Sansa were both, for good or for ill, women who put their duty before their self. If they survived this war, Daenerys would go back South and marry a man of her choosing, would have silver-haired children with names like Rhaegar and Aegon and Visenya, and Sansa would remain in Winterfell, raising Rickon to be the best Lord she could, and suffer whatever marriage that would benefit House Stark the most. 

She cast around for a change in subject, and her eyes fell to the book in the queen’s lap, the aged, yellow pages softly lit by firelight. “Are you enjoying your book, Your Grace?”

Daenerys’ eyes sparkled. “Oh yes,” she grinned. “Very much so. I had no idea that Westeros poetry was so very interesting.”

Sansa raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Poetry? I’m afraid I don’t recognize the title.” She laughed a little bit. “And here I thought I had made my mother read me every poem, sonnet, and song to be found in our library.”

“Perhaps she might not have read you these, My Lady,” said Daenerys, something sweet and wicked in her eyes.

Sansa bit her lip. “Oh? And why is that?”

Instead of answering, Daenerys flipped the pages and started to read. “ _Like the sweet apple which reddens upon the topmost bough / atop the topmost twig - which the pluckers forgot, somehow / Forget it not, nay / but got it not, for none could get it till now_.”

Sansa blushed brilliantly at the implications. “Oh,” she said.

Daenerys laughed. “‘Oh’ indeed. Lyseni poetry may be more obvious in their design, but I find I rather like these better.”

“I was terribly romantic as a child,” Sansa recalled, something between nausea and nostalgia bubbling up in her stomach as she remembered her fondest dreams of marrying a handsome lord, of being queen. What a farce marriage had been; what monsters kings made. 

Daenerys smiled at her, and Sansa thought she saw a hint of fondness in the curve of her lips, though it may have been a trick of the light. “Somehow that surprises me. You always seem so proper and dignified.”

Sansa hummed. “I’ve learned to be,” she told her. “‘Twas not an easy lesson.”

Daenerys sighed. “No. I cannot imagine it would be.” The queen gave her a look. “You know, I envied you when we first met - your elegance, your dignity, your poise. I was envious of how regal you were, how easy you made it look.”

Sansa blinked rapidly, startled. “ _You_ were envious of _me?_ ”

Daenerys laughed at what Sansa imagined was a stupefied look on her face. “Is that so strange? Here I grew up in exile, learning nothing of courtiers or etiquette, and spent most of my time with cultures far different than any in Westeros. The Dothraki value their horses and their slaves, and would never suffer a woman to be so proud or dignified as you might find a noblewoman of Westeros to be. It wasn’t until I was in Meereen that I began to learn what you would call court etiquette, but still it was nothing like here. It is not always easy for me to maintain poise, to be elegant, not when I still remember life as a nomad, as a homeless girl. When I am not on my dragons, I am always expected to be the perfect, gentile lady and to set an example, at least in the South, and most of the time I feel as though I come up short. Intimidating, certainly, but elegant?” She paused, studying Sansa seriously. “And there you were, regal and fine, and every word and action of yours perfectly executed. I have never been so easily graceful as that.”

Sansa sat there for a long moment, stunned. Daenerys was everything Sansa had aspired to be growing up, and she could scarcely understand that there was anything the queen might envy of _her._ “If it is a struggle, Your Grace, it hardly shows,” she said honestly. “You are… you are very elegant, I believe. The very picture of grace.”

Daenerys searched her face, perhaps for a lie. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice low and quiet. _Intimate,_ Sansa thought. “I am more than accustomed to flattery, but for some reason I do believe that you mean it.”

Sansa swallowed. _Choose your words carefully._ “There is much to flatter about you, Your Grace,” she said. “But I find compliments to be best when they are honest.”

Her violet eyes shined in the firelight. “And honesty is so hard to find for women like us, isn’t it?”

“Terribly so,” Sansa agreed. (The words rolled around in her head. _Women like us, women like us, women like us. Us, us, us._ ) 

“Then I suppose,” Daenerys said slowly, “that we should appreciate it where we find it.”

Sansa exhaled slowly. “I suppose we should,” she said, barely a whisper. She felt very warm, by the fire, and it occurred to her that Daenerys’ bare ankles were very close to her, within arm reach. She had dainty feet, with delicate toes and prominent ankles. Her skin seemed to glow golden in the light of the fire, and Sansa wondered if her touch would burn. _But I am already kissed by fire,_ she thought. Jon had told her that. Fire is luck, fire is power. Fire is seduction, and temptation.

Fire is dangerous. Sansa had no wish to be burned, to earn more scars than she already had. She liked to think herself brave, but she was not, not in this way. She was not like Jeyne, like Jory. In the past she may have let herself dream of finding such a companion, but Sansa knew that such things were dangerous in more ways than one. There had been rumors, she remembered, of Renly and Loras. Such dangerous things, rumors. Such dangerous things, lovers. 

Daenerys opened her mouth to say something else, but whatever it was never came out, for just in that moment the door to the library burst open, and Sansa yelped in surprise as Jory came flying in. 

Daenerys shot to her feet. “What is this?” she said. Whatever had passed between them was lost in a moment, and Daenerys no longer looked soft, or warm, but sharp and dangerous, every inch a warrior.

Jory’s eyes found Sansa’s as she also stood up. “My lady,” said Jory, “at the gates, you must come and see.”

“An invasion?” she asked, already reaching for her stockings and shoes as Daenerys herself began to lace up her own.

“No,” said Jory slowly. “You need to see for yourself.”

They finished lacing up their boots and fetching their cloaks, and the two of them hurried after Jory as the other woman quickly led them down the tower and across the many stone courtyards of Winterfell until they reached the gate just as they began to close behind a figure on a horse. There was a group of men, mostly Manderly and Mormont guards, but they quickly parted once they noticed Daenerys and Sansa, and so the two of them were able to approach the cloaked figure. The horse was a fine grey mare, and the figure on top wore a hooded cloak that clung to their frame as they climbed down from the saddle, and Sansa found herself frozen in place. 

It was the sword on her hip that gave her away, that damned sword that had caused Sansa no small amount of grief in King’s Landing as all of her time was suddenly taken up by the absurd sword instructor father had hired. The thin, long rapier Jon had commissioned, which matched the thin, long figure before her as she lowered her hood and turned to face the gathering crowd.

Long, dark hair. Eyes as grey as the stones of Winterfell, and a face as long and solemn as Jon’s. 

Sansa trembled where she stood. “Arya,” she whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was very, very hard to write and I'm still not sure it entirely makes sense? If there's something wrong with it let me know, or let me know if you have any thoughts on what you'd like to see happen/what you think might happen, or any feedback at all really is appreciated. I truly hope that this chapter was worth the wait. 
> 
> The poem that Daenerys reads is an excerpt from Sappho's "One Girl".


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya returns home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I finished this much sooner than I anticipated. This chapter is much, much different than I originally imagined, but I think that it's one that needed to happen. Most of this chapter is Sansa and Arya/Stark family feels, with very little Daensa content, but this story isn't just about Daensa, but about the future, and Sansa and Arya's reunion is one that I really, really want to see, and the show was so, so disappointing in that area. Arya is also much, much harder for me to get in the headspace of, so if she feels a little out of character, I apologize. If you want more explanation on my characterization choices, I'll leave it in the end notes.

For a long, tremulous moment, all Sansa could do was stand there in the mud and the snow and gawk at her sister, the woman she thought - who _everyone_ thought - to have been long dead, after it was revealed that the girl married to Ramsay Snow was actually Jeyne. The rain that she and Daenerys had fled to the Library Tower to escape had long since stopped, thankfully, but the ground was still slick with brown slurry, and Sansa could feel it seeping into her damp dress and woolen stockings as she shook and shuddered, tears cold on her cheeks as she and Arya were locked in a strange, silent embrace of the eyes, both of them trying to reconcile the sight of the other after so many years of pain and separation. 

Sansa could hardly believe how tall Arya was; besides the coloring and the Stark look, and the certain indescribable tilt to her chin that was simply _Arya,_ the woman who stood before her bore almost no resemblance to the small ruffian she remembered. The last time she saw her, Arya had been in that awkward phase of youth where the body began to grow too fast, and she had been all elbows and knees, skinny as a colt with her long brown braids trailing behind her, stubborn and perpetually covered in all sorts of scuffs and bruises from her so-called water dancing lessons. She had barely come up to Sansa’s chin, though, always tiny compared to the gangliness of Sansa’s own youth.

The woman in front of her was tall, and while she was still skinny, there was no doubt that beneath the dark and drab clothing, she had the curves of a woman. Her face was shockingly lovely, and she had grown into herself, a confidence she’d never seen in her little sister evident in the way she held her body with a practiced ease. She wore her hair in a long, singular braid thrown over her shoulder, and with the bow and quiver on her saddle and Needle on her hip, she looked for all the world like some mythical huntress come to life, one of Old Nan’s tales made flesh. If this was what Lyanna Stark had looked like, Sansa understood why the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms had gone to war for her. 

Sansa licked her lips, and she could taste her own tears. “Arya,” she said again, and she felt more than saw the name ripple out into the men, the dawning comprehension and shock, the disbelief and incredulity; Arya Stark had returned home at last. 

Her sister stepped forward, and the men parted to let her come through until they were face to face, and Sansa was startled when she realized that she was shorter than Arya, now, though only just. “Sansa,” Arya said, her voice clear and calm and achingly, beautifully familiar, like a memory plucked right from Sansa’s childhood. “Sansa,” she said again, like she could hardly believe it herself.

Sansa made an aborted arm movement, an instinctive spasm of desire seizing her to grab Arya and hold her as she had when she first found Rickon, as when she first found Jon, but something stopped her, and her hand fell, shaking, back to her side. She and Arya had never been the hugging sort, not even when they had been very young and still played together in the snow before the foolishness of sibling rivalry had set in as they aged. Even when they had shared a bed, they had not been the physically affectionate sort, but everything inside of her wanted nothing more than to throw her arms around Arya’s knees and weep until morning came. 

She was saved from her awkwardness when Arya, shockingly, stepped forward and wrapped her long arms around Sansa’s neck, pulling her close until Sansa’s chin was tucked against her shoulder. The hug was slightly stiff and slightly awkward, but Sansa cried into her sister’s arms anyways, inhaling the scent of snow and horse sweat and leather, and she could hear the steady _thump-thump_ of Arya’s heartbeat where her ear was smashed against her. They stood there for a long moment, breathing, and she could feel like shivers wrack through Arya as though she were crying, or perhaps laughing, though Arya made no sound until they finally pulled away and Sansa saw, to her surprise, that there was a veil of tears in Arya’s grey, grey eyes. 

“Arya,” she said again, stupidly, and the name sounded unbelievable even to her own ears. “Arya. How - how are you here?”

Her sister shook her head slightly, eyes flickering around to the crowd Sansa had entirely forgotten was gathered around them. “It’s a long story, one perhaps best told in private.”

Sansa swallowed, shaking her own head to try and clear it of her fuzzy, half-formed thoughts. “Right, of course, I -,” she trailed off, her words failing her. Petyr had drilled it into her that she must always, always know what to say in any situation, but she doubted even he could have predicted this. 

Behind her, Daenerys suddenly cleared her throat, and Sansa jumped in surprise, having forgotten, for a moment, about her presence. She turned to face the queen, one of her hands still gripping the edge of Arya’s plain, brown cloak. She cleared her throat, trying desperately to regain her composure. _Never show weakness._ She had learned that one from the Lannisters, even before Petyr had trained her. “Your Grace,” she said, voice thin and hoarse with emotion, “may I present to you my younger sister, Lady Arya Stark.”

Daenerys raised a graceful, silver brow. “A startling pleasure, Lady Arya. I was not aware that you were in the North, nor indeed that you were even alive.”

To Sansa’s surprise, Arya executed a flawless bow, her long braid nearly reaching the mud. She straightened up, and Sansa couldn’t quite read the expression on her sister’s face. “The pleasure is mine, Your Grace. I’ve heard from many of the smallfolk of the food and supplies that you’ve brought with you. There were tales of your deeds all over Essos, and many I have met would not have been able to call themselves free men without your aid.” Her mouth quirked, her eyes suddenly brightening. “And I _have_ always wanted to see a dragon.”

Words pooled on Sansa’s tongue, questions like _Why were you in Essos?_ and _Where did you learn manners after all these years?_ but this was not the place to be asking them, and she was not given a chance as Daenerys threw her head back and laughed, a sound of genuine delight. “I’m afraid I will have to disappoint you on that venture, my lady,” said Daenerys with a smile. “I’ve left my dragons by the sea, where they are free to dive for their food and not threaten the people or their livestock.” She tilted her head to the side thoughtfully. “I would love to hear how you came by stories of my campaign, however.”

Arya dipped her head. “And you will have them,” she said politely, then turned back to a stunned Sansa. “But first,” she said quietly, “I would like to see Rickon. I’ve heard he’s here, as well.”

Sansa blinked. “Oh, oh! Of course, he’ll be - he’ll be so thrilled to see you. He’s doing his lessons with Maester Eyrion, right now.”

Arya smiled, a true and happy smile, and she looked much more like the Arya of Sansa’s memories just then as they turned to walk towards the Great Hall, the one who always trailed after Father and Jon with clumps of dirty wildflowers in her grasp. Sansa led the way, still shaky beneath her damp, frosty cloak, her mind tumbling over and over as she tried to reconcile her baby sister with the stranger who followed behind her. 

* * *

Rickon, while initially uncertain, was thrilled to be reunited with Arya. Sansa knew how little Rickon remembered of the time before the wars, and she had spent many nights telling her younger brother all the stories she could think of as she tucked him in; stories of Mother and Father, of Robb and Jon and Bran, of Arya, even of Hodor and Old Nan and Ser Rodrik and Jory Cassel and Mikken, everything she could possibly think of that Rickon deserved to know, that he was robbed of. He recalled very little of their family, but he knew all about Arya, and once she smiled and tousled his hair he became nearly ecstatic with happiness as bits and pieces of memory came flooding back, wrapping his long arms around Arya’s waist and beaming at her with a gap-toothed smile as Shaggydog sniffed at Arya’s outstretched hands. So far, Sansa was the only person besides Rickon who Shaggydog would even come close to, and the direwolf’s acceptance of Arya made something in Sansa’s chest ease. 

Arya managed to gently pry Rickon’s arms from around her, and the three siblings sat at the table, now sequestered by themselves in the family solar, Daenerys having decided to give them a bit of space as a family to reconnect. “Sanny said you were dead,” Rickon said, and Sansa winced.

Arya only smiled. “Not quite.”

He looked over at Sansa. “Does that mean Mother and Father and Robb will come back, too?”

Sansa felt her own smile freeze on her face. She glanced at Arya, whose lips turned white as she pursed her mouth tightly, her face becoming shadowed by the same grief Sansa felt pierce her own heart. 

It was Arya who answered. “No,” she told him, as grave as the dead. “No. That’s different, they’re - they’re gone, Rickon. They can’t come back.”

Rickon scowled. “But _you_ did, and everyone said you weren’t coming back, either!”

Arya looked in askance to Sansa, an edge of helplessness on her face. Sansa swallowed heavily, and gently put her hand over Rickon’s. “Rickon,” she started, only to stop when their brother angrily snatched his hand away.

“ _Why?”_ he demanded loudly. “Why can Arry come home, but not Mother and Father?”

She saw Arya flinch. “Rickon,” Sansa tried again, but Rickon only shot to his feet, his face blotchy and red, his eyes filling with tears, and Sansa felt her own face grow wet as she started to cry at the pain and frustration on his face.

“ _MAYBE THEY WILL,”_ he said loudly, his small hands clenched into fists. _“MAYBE THEY WILL!”_

Before either of them could say anything, Rickon turned and bolted from the room, and Sansa knew that he would hide himself away until Osha searched him out.

The two sisters sat in silence for a long time, and Sansa tried to stifle her sobs, her fingernails biting into the skin of her palms as she clenched her fists in an effort to maintain composure. She could not even bare to look at Arya for several long, awful moments, and when she finally did, she saw her sister wearing an expression that brought their father painfully to mind; Arya looked a thousand years old, haunted and wearied and tired, and Sansa could feel the wounds in her soul reopening. 

“I’m sorry,” Arya whispered eventually, but Sansa waved a shaky hand to cut her off.

“It’s not your fault,” she replied hoarsely. “He doesn’t - he doesn’t remember. He doesn’t understand.”

Arya looked away, her eyes finding the godswood tapestry. “I’ve dreamed of Winterfell for so long,” she said.

Sansa closed her eyes. “So did I.”

* * *

They sat and talked for a while longer, but Rickon’s outburst had weighed them both down, and when Arya decided to go find her old bedroom, Sansa found herself horribly relieved. She hadn’t seen her sister in years, and now that they were face to face again - a situation she would have believed impossible just this morning - she could barely stand to look at her without her heart feeling like it would burst open, all the pain she’d buried for so long gushing out in an awful, unstoppable hemorrhage. 

She ought to go after Arya, to hold her in her arms, to reassure them both. She ought to find Rickon, to try and ease his pain and confusion. But at the moment, Sansa felt weak, and all she could do was sit in the low-light of a single burning lantern and weep into her hands, shivering. She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, but eventually she was shaken from her stupor when there was a knock at the door to the solar, and Sansa lifted her head and said, “Come in,” fully expecting it to be Jeyne or Jory, only to be shocked silent when Daenerys entered instead. 

The queen had changed out of her wet clothes into a clean, dry gown of shimmering gold beneath a heavy lavender cloak lined with cloth-of-gold, her hair now brushed out and pulled into an elegant series of braids that cascaded down her back. She wore an unusually hesitant expression on her face, and her violet eyes were grim as she looked down upon Sansa where she was hunched over the table.

“I was worried when you didn’t reappear after your sister,” Daenerys said, making a vague sweeping gesture with her hand. She frowned. “Are you quite alright, Lady Sansa?”

Sansa gripped the edge of the table so hard her nails bit into the wood, fighting down the urge to turn away and hide her pain. _Never let them see you weak,_ Petyr whispered in her ear. _Never show your underbelly to your enemies lest they decide to stick a knife in it._ But Daenerys already knew her pain, and there was really nowhere to hide, anyways. She brushed away the tears on her cheeks, her face tender and hot from crying, her eyes swollen and tired. “I’m fine, Your Grace,” she managed, quietly relieved when her voice didn’t shake.

Daenerys crossed the room and sat beside her, and Sansa had to resist the urge to back herself into the corner; she felt like one giant wound, like any prodding from Daenerys might make her snap. _You are a wolf,_ she told herself. _Be a wolf._ But all she really felt like was a young girl who missed her family so much, even when they were right beside her. “You don’t look alright,” Daenerys said, gently.

Sansa swallowed heavily. “It has been a long day, and I’m quite tired, but I assure you that I - I’m quite fine, truly.”

Daenerys laid her hand over Sansa’s, and Sansa nearly jumped at the gesture. Daenerys’ skin was smooth and soft, her fingers calloused from her horsewhips, and she didn’t burn quite as hot as Sansa would have imagined. Still, the touch warmed her. “You can talk to me, if you want to,” Daenerys said softly, and Sansa had to turn her head away as fresh tears pricked her eyes. When was the last time anyone was gentle with her?

She felt almost like she couldn’t breathe, like she was holding in her breath as she held back her tears. “Rickon doesn’t understand,” she said through the lump in her throat. “He thinks that because Arya came home, so will our mother and father, and Robb…” she trailed off, biting her lip to stave off a sob. 

Daenerys made a soft noise of understanding. “He was confused?”

“He was _angry,_ ” she said miserably. She knew his pain so well, the anger that felt like it might boil you alive as you thought of all the world had taken away from you. At least Sansa had the benefit of memory - though time and grief might have robbed her of the joy, she could still recall how it felt to sit at her mother’s feet while she brushed her hair, the feel of her mother’s hands and the brush soothing in a way nothing could ever come close to. She could still remember her father’s quiet laugh, and the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. She could remember Robb, with snowflakes melting in his hair, young and so alive; she could remember Bran, boisterous and brave and forever climbing the walls. She had the memory of love, of joy, of security.

All Rickon had was pain and grief.

“I am sorry,” Daenerys said, and Sansa was surprised to find she believed her. Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see the mask of sorrow Daenerys wore, and the lump in her throat grew bigger. _Do not pity me,_ she wanted to say, but couldn’t make the words leave her mouth. “Your family has suffered so much.”

“I thought it would be easier,” Sansa confessed, guilt settling in her belly like a hard lump of bread.

“Easier?”

“To be reunited with Arya,” she said, and try as she might she could not stop the tears from spilling down her face. She was so tired of crying. “I always imagined that if I saw her again, it would be easy. It would be - happy, joyous.” She laughed tearfully. “I should have known better. We never were much for joy when we were together as children.”

“I understand that siblings can be... difficult,” Daenerys said. 

“We were awful to one another,” Sansa said, then winced. “ _I_ was awful,” she admitted. “I called her names, and told her she should be more ladylike, and I blamed her for my direwolf’s death.” She swallowed. “I was a horrible, selfish girl.”

“You were a child,” Daenerys said gently, squeezing her hand. “How could you have known?”

Sansa looked down at their hands. Daenerys was wearing a ring on her thumb, a little gold band with a purple gem that matched her eyes. It made Sansa think of the hairnet filled with poison, like serpents in her hair. She could not remember the last time someone touched her with comfort in mind instead of pain. “It isn’t an excuse,” Sansa said, eventually.

“No,” said Daenerys. “But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that second chances are hard to come by. Mayhaps this can be yours, with your sister. You’ve both survived, and you’ve both come home. Surely it cannot be harder than that, to reconcile?”

Sansa sniffled, trying not to sound terribly snotty and generally failing. If the queen thought ill of her for her tears, there was no sign of it. “I hope you are right,” she whispered. 

Daenerys smiled. “I generally find that I am,” she teased lightly, knocking her elbow lightly against Sansa’s side in jest, and Sansa was surprised into laughter, which made Daenerys’ smile grow. 

“Thank you,” she said, earnestly. “I do feel better.”

She could see the candlelight reflected in Daenerys’ violet eyes, warm and bright. She squeezed her hand again before letting it go. “You are very welcome, my lady.”

* * *

The night after Arya’s return, Sansa’s dreams were filled with nightmares. That wasn’t unusual in itself, for she had had nightmares nearly every night since her father’s execution, but these dreams were not like dreams of before, when she would watch her father die over and over again, or when her nightmares of her almost consummation with Tyrion would flicker and it would be Ilyn Payne in her bed instead. These were not like the dreams she had when she was Alayne, either, a confused mixture of longing and terror, nightmares of Aunt Lysa falling and Petyr’s awful smile and Sweetrobin shake-shake-shaking in his bed. 

No, these dreams were different. They were much worse.

In her dreams, winter came to Winterfell in a storm of dead men with eyes like chips of blue ice, their skin black and rotten and peeling away from their bones to reveal their gory, bloated innards, the stench of death filling the air. In her dreams, there were dragons singing through the air and fields of fire bathing the world, but the dead kept rising, and rising, and rising, until a tidal wave of bones crested the walls of Winterfell and pulled down the ancient stones.

In her dreams, the North fell, and the rest of the world followed. 

* * *

The next day, Sansa found herself jittery and anxious as she walked the walls of the keep, staring out across the vast, white landscape as snowflakes fell like puffy white flower petals. It was really far too cold to be out here, and Jory would certainly be furious at her for walking out alone, but Sansa finally felt like she could breathe, standing atop the grey stone walls that had been her hearth and her cradle since birth. From up here, the winter seemed serene, like a blanket of white silence covering the world, but Sansa knew very well that it wouldn’t remain that way for long. 

Soon, the snow on the ground would rise higher than the horses, and the people would be shivering and shaking and trying not to freeze to death in their beds each night. Soon the children would be crying from hunger pains as their stores dried up. Even sooner than that, their fathers and their sons and their brothers would be fighting and dying as they battled foes undreamed up, and Sansa would be the one to send them away to their deaths. Sansa would be the one who remained, who watched and waited and wondered if there would be anyone to come back at all.

Jon was right when they said that mounting a defense was the only option that they had if they wanted to survive, but Sansa knew from experience how hard it was to be the ones left behind, too. 

She was still thinking about Jon, and about her dreams, when Arya came to find her. Her sister had traded her drab traveling clothes for a brown tunic over black trousers and thick winter boots, and like Jory she wore boiled leather armour, with Needle on her hip, and her hair in the same long, dark braid. Their mother would surely be horrified to find her second daughter wearing men’s clothing, but Sansa thought to herself that the ensemble suited her far better than the dresses she’d suffered to wear as a child ever did. The grey stitching on her tunic brought out the grey of her eyes, and Sansa was once again startled by how beautiful Arya was now as a woman grown. She looked like the perfect Northern woman that Sansa, with her southern Tully looks, could ever hope to be, no matter that the same blood ran in both their veins. 

“Sansa,” her sister greeted, coming to stand beside her, and Sansa was briefly taken aback by how nice it was to be addressed without titles for once. Even Jeyne insisted on calling her _Lady Sansa._

“Arya,” she said, and as they stood side by side with their elbows touching, Sansa still felt a vast distance between the two of them, an echo of loneliness forged by time and separation. Sansa had never really realized how terribly you could miss someone who was standing right beside you.

Her sister watched the skyline; perhaps she was looking for Daenerys’ dragons. “You’ve done well,” she said, her voice quiet in the still winter air.

Sansa blinked. She was fairly certain that was the first time Arya had ever complimented her - but then, she’d never complimented her sister either, had she? “Thank you,” she said, and genuinely meant it. _It was all for you,_ she wanted to say, but the words died on her tongue. _It was all for our family, for Mother and Father and Robb and Bran. For you and Rickon, even for Jon._ She’d rebuilt this home for a family she’d never thought she’d see again. She’d taken it back and seen the men who took it from them slain. It didn’t feel like enough, most days, and yet here they were, both of Ned Stark’s daughters alive and standing upon the walls their ancestors built. 

Maybe someday it would feel like she’d done enough to make up for all the hurt. 

“I wanted to…” Arya began, then paused. “I wanted to apologize, again, for Rickon. I didn’t think… I didn’t think about what it might mean, for him to see me again.”

“Arya,” she said tightly. “You don’t need to apologize. Rickon -” she choked up, “the first time he saw me again, in White Harbor… he thought I was Mother.” Tears blurred her vision. “I had to explain it to him, that they were all dead and gone. He didn’t know anything about the Red Wedding, or about - about Mother dying.” Her voice shook.

Arya turned her head, and Sansa was surprised by the tears on her sister’s face. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Gods, Sansa, I’m so sorry.”

Sansa wiped her hand under her runny nose. “So am I,” she said sadly. 

Arya let out a bitter laugh. “This isn’t how I expected this to go. The tears, I mean. I thought - I hoped it’d be easier. Better.”

Sansa laughed weakly at the echo of her earlier sentiment. “I hardly let myself imagine seeing you again at all,” she said. “So it is better, really. Tears and all.”

Arya smiled. “Truly?”

Sansa nodded. “I’d rather have you back,” she said fervently. “All the tears in the world, I’d give them all for our family to be together again.”

Arya offered her a faint smile. “So would I.”

Sansa bit her lip, staring at her sister’s face, trying to see in it the girl she’d once wished her life to be without. How stupid she’d been. How selfish. “Where have you been?” she asked.

“Many places,” Arya said quietly.

“How long have you been in the North?”

Arya bit her lip, looking down at her feet. “A few months,” she said, and Sansa felt it like a punch in the gut. She looked back up and met Sansa’s eyes. “I didn’t know if you would want me to come back.”

Sansa stared at her in shock. “ _Arya,”_ she said, horrified. “You really thought that I wouldn’t want you? That I would prefer to think you _dead_?”

Her sister grimaced. “You would have when we were younger.”

Sansa flinched at the assessment. She wished that she could deny it. “I know that we were never close,” said Sansa, “and I know that most of that is my own fault, but I mean it when I say that I am glad that you are back.” She reached out for Arya’s hand, and was relieved when her sister didn’t pull away. “I am sorry, for all the terrible things I said and did when we were children.”

Arya stared at her, then exhaled slowly. “So am I,” she said, and then, “thank you.” She grimaced. “Now can we please never talk about it again?”

Sansa laughed. “Certainly.” 

Arya sighed heavily, and let go of Sansa’s hand to lean her elbows against the walls. She looked down, and from this distance they could see the lines of men as they trained, most of them Daenerys’ men who were still getting used to their new, icy terrain. “How long do you think we have?”

Sansa didn’t have to ask her what she meant. “Not long,” she said, her voice turning quiet. Sometimes it felt like talking about it would only bring about the end faster. “Jon’s letters have been getting worse.”

Arya looked at her, something bright behind her eyes. “How is he?”

“Alive,” said Sansa, “and changed, as we all are. But I am sure that seeing you again will make it all worth it.” Seeing Jon again had been the sweetest dream, even with his dire warnings, but she knew that it was not she who Jon wished most to hold again; it’d always been Jon and Arya, more than any of them, and she could hardly imagine how Jon would feel when he found out that Arya was alive. He might even smile, solemn man that he’d become. Perhaps they might all find some sort of happiness, before the end. It was far more than Sansa might have hoped for even a few days ago. 

Her sister nodded, her grey eyes distant as she peered further north, towards where the Wall stood in the far distance. After a moment, she asked, “Do you really think that Daenerys and her dragons will be enough?”

Sansa fisted her hands in her cloak, pulling it tighter around her shoulders. “I have to,” she said. “Daenerys believes it, at least, and I suppose that she knows better than anyone what she’s capable of.”

Arya looked over at her again. “The two of you seem close.”

Sansa flushed. “We’re allies.”

Arya hummed, eyes narrowing. “She seems quite friendly. And quite beautiful.”

It was Sansa’s turn to study her feet. All the emotion of the past day had robbed her of the high walls she’d built to protect herself, and she found it difficult to shield her thoughts from her sister. “We have much in common, for better or for worse. I suppose we’ve become friends, after a fashion.”

“Do you trust her?” Arya asked quietly.

Sansa pursed her lips. “I do,” she said, carefully. “At least, I trust her to fight for us.”

“And after that?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. She seems to genuinely care about the people, about the North, but I know that she must have some sort of agenda. She’s won the Iron Throne, and I doubt there’s much she wouldn’t do to keep it.”

Arya raised an eyebrow. “She can’t be so terrible, if she killed the Lannisters. I wish I’d been there to see Cersei’s face when those great beasts of hers landed at Blackwater.”

Sansa snorted. “So do I. I do think that she’ll be a good ruler, a far better one than we’ve had in decades, at the very least. But I don’t know what her designs are, for the North, if she truly means to leave us in peace as she says.” She paused, and thought of the warmth of Daenerys’ hand last night, the kindness in her smile. “But I _want_ to believe in her,” Sansa whispered, throat tightening. “I want to believe that she is everything that she appears. I want to believe that she’s going to build a better world, and that I’ll be there to see it.”

“A woman on the Iron Throne,” Arya marveled. “That has to mean something, right?”

Sansa looked back towards the keep. “Yes,” she said. “I think it does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my decision to make Arya "have more manners" is that, well, I think that training to be a Faceless Man, she would have learned how to act in just about any situation, right? It'd be like spy training, I think, learning how to read people and insert yourself into any situation in the way most beneficial to you. So here we have Arya who knows that Daenerys is extremely valuable (besides her own personal interest in a woman being a ruler/her interest in female hero figures like Nymeria and Aegon's sisters, since Arya in the books is extremely feminist, not like in the show where she thinks "most girls are idiots") and she knows that there are certain expectations about how she should act as a Lady of House Stark, despite her own misgivings about gender norms, and so she's basically feeling Daenerys out. And I would just like to reiterate that this is BOOK based. So we do not have isolationist, cold-hearted, bloodthirsty Arya, but an Arya who makes friends as easily as breathing, who cares deeply about people, who appreciates beauty, who has self-esteem issues and is a traumatized child and who wants, more than anything, to have Winterfell and her family back. I really do think that their reunion would be very emotionally painful, since it would be a reminder of the last time they saw each other and all the pain they'd experienced since/all of their loneliness and longing and grief and trauma, but I also believe that it will be healing for them, to forgive themselves for the children they were and to build a new relationship as the women they are now. As for Rickon, please remember that he is a traumatized little boy who doesn't understand the complexity of politics and why everyone he loves is dead. 
> 
> Phew. That was long. Sorry about that. If you have any questions/comments on my choices, please let me know. I'm not sure when the next chapter will drop, but I'm American and it's the holidays here so I probably won't be writing too much this weekend. I've got some vague plans for the next chapter - featuring more Daensa and more Stark family feels - but I've no idea when it'll be written, hopefully soon. I see this story having maybe one or two more chapters, and then perhaps some one-shots set in the same universe.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations are had, and Sansa starts to reach for her bravery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, here we go, the penultimate chapter. These two have come so far, and they are so close, now. I really wanted to focus on Sansa and Dany growing closer, as well as Sansa and Arya's relationship. This chapter is a bit shorter than the previous ones, but I hope the content makes up for it. There will only be one more chapter, but I have vague plans for possible future additions and making this a series. Thank you for all of your support so far, as we near the end.

“I’m not sure that this is a good idea,” Sansa said warily as she followed Arya into the godswood. 

Arya snorted without turning around to look at her. “It is and you know it, you just don’t  _ want  _ to do it.”

“Fine,” said Sansa petulantly, “I do  _ not  _ want to do it.”

Coming to stop beneath the heart tree, Arya spun around to face her, and her face was completely serious. “Sansa,” she said firmly, “there is a war coming, one that no one is sure that we have any chance at winning. You need to be able to defend yourself in case the armies and the dragons fall, or in case they attack before we can mount a proper defense further north.”

Sansa grimaced. It was an argument that they’d been having for the past week, after Arya had come to her the second morning after her return and announced her decision to train Sansa to fight - without having consulted Sansa about it at all. After much debate, Sansa had relented and allowed Arya one lesson to try it out; she’d been unhappy at the idea, and even more so when Arya insisted she wear some of Jory’s breeches and armour to do it. She’d still stubbornly worn a corset beneath her outerwear, but nevertheless she felt horribly naked as she’d followed Arya through Winterfell wearing tight, calf-skin breeches and Jory’s worn leather cuirass over a forest green doublet that Jeyne had embroidered with vines upon the cuffs, her shoulders weighed down by heavy pauldrons and her forearms tightly laced into vambraces. Alarra had combed her thick auburn hair into one long, seamless braid that hung down the center of her back, and Sansa was fully aware of how very unladylike she looked as she came to stand awkwardly across the clearing from Arya, fiddling with the pommel of her blunted training sword.

Arya, looking perfectly at home in her own trousers and the cuirass she wore over a shirt of chainmail, her hair pulled up into an elegant, braided knot at the top of her head, raised an eyebrow and silently dared Sansa to argue with her. 

She sighed. “What makes you think that I would last five seconds in a fight, anyways?”

“I just found you,” Arya said stubbornly. “I’m not going to let you die because you refused to learn how to hold a bloody sword.”

Sansa softened. Sometimes she forgot that Arya was fighting for their family every bit as much as Sansa, mayhaps even more so, since she would - much to Sansa’s disapproval - be on the front lines in the war to come. She knew Arya, despite refusing to entertain the subject, was secretly terrified of losing them all again, of losing Winterfell and the North and the name  _ Stark  _ again. There was still so much of Arya’s story that Sansa didn’t know, but she did know that Arya’s path home was no easier than her own. “Alright,” she said, peaceably. “Alright. Show me how to fight.”

Arya grinned, bright and fierce. Her grey eyes were lined with smudges of kohl, and she looked beautiful and unbreakable. “First rule,” she said. “Stick ‘em with the pointy end.”

* * *

“I’ve noticed that you and your sister have been growing closer,” Daenerys said that night, as they supped in her chambers alone. Sansa was sore in places she hadn’t even realized she could be sore, and she was fairly certain that she still wouldn’t stand a single chance against the enemies that Jon described to her, but still there was something in Sansa’s chest that felt peaceful, now that she and Arya had begun to bridge the gap between themselves. 

Sansa sipped at her tankard of ale, letting the alcohol warm her. “We have,” she said softly.

Daenerys hummed, taking a bite of her supper. Their meals had grown noticeably smaller in the few months that Daenerys had been in Winterfell, and the queen had finally insisted that everyone, including herself, begin to ration their supplies; Sansa had been relieved, and also faintly surprised - she still remembered the way Joffrey and his court had feasted while the smallfolk starved outside when the Tyrells closed the roseroad. Daenerys was again proving that she cared about the people, and made sure that there was enough food to go around to everyone, even the lowliest of the smallfolk, and Sansa couldn’t dislodge the admiration that grew in her chest when she remembered how Daenerys had helped her hand out bread and soup to the children the day before as more and more refugees came pouring into Winterfell in an effort to survive the freeze. 

Sansa picked at her own food, her tired body finding the idea of eating unappealing, but she refused to let any of it go to waste. Tonight they were eating herring and potato pie served with the crust golden and warm, and a dish of glazed peas and carrots accompanied it beside their tankards of ale and water, retrieved from the snowmelt now that the wells were inaccessible due to the snow. It would be many months, perhaps years before Sansa tasted lemoncakes again, but if it meant that they would not starve, Sansa would gladly eat nothing but bread crusts from now until the day she died. She could remember the way hunger looked upon the smallfolk of Fleabottom, how it stirred up anger and resentment in their sallow, sunken faces, and she could remember all too well how the nobles were torn to pieces for neglecting their duties. If Sansa could make it through this winter keeping her people fed, she’d consider it a success to rival winning any war. 

“Your sister is quite a formidable woman,” Daenerys added. She’d watched eagerly as Arya faced down several of her Unsullied without breaking a sweat. “I don’t think I have ever met a woman like her.”

“Arya is very singular,” Sansa agreed. There was a time when she would have meant it as an insult, but not now. If Arya could fight amongst the deadliest warriors of Essos, then she stood a chance against the pale monster beyond the wall. 

“Where did she learn such things, I wonder?” the queen asked, not quite pointedly. Arya and Daenerys were fast becoming friends, but Sansa knew it made Daenerys chafe, how deliberately vague Arya was about her years on the run. For her part, Sansa wasn’t entirely certain that she wanted to know all that Arya had been through - she had enough nightmares as it was - but she knew that as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Daenerys operated on knowing all the information that she could. It had edged in a layer of frisson into their daily conversations, how Sansa refused to press Arya for information. No matter what Sansa might feel for Daenerys, and no matter how much she desired for them to be the staunchest of allies, she refused to betray her sister’s trust, not when she had only recently earned it. 

“I am not sure, Your Grace,” Sansa answered, a touch weary. She was tired of having to play word games with every conversation. She had thought the two of them were passed such things.

Daenerys sighed, brushing her hair out of her face. She had left it undone tonight, and the silver waves cascaded down over the back of her chair; it matched the silver embroidery on her sleeveless black dress, the silver swirls and stars dancing across the rich fabric and making it seem as if she was wearing a piece of the night sky itself. Her long, golden arms were bare except for a silver bangle she wore around her left arm that bore the three headed dragon of her sigil, and everytime she moved Sansa could hear the matching bangles around her ankles tinkle. Simply watching her made Sansa feel chilled, even bundled up in one of Wylla’s borrowed gowns of pale yellow wool and a heavy, red fur cloak made from the finest fox hides, but Sansa knew that Daenerys didn’t feel the cold the same as she did, especially sitting so close to the hearth as they were. “I suppose they must be powerful, whomever taught Lady Arya to fight. Whomever hid her during the wars.”

“Powerful, mayhaps,” Sansa said quietly, “but not so much to shield her from the true struggles of the world, Your Grace. She has chosen to come to Winterfell and bend the knee to you, to  _ fight  _ for you.”

Daenerys looked at her for a long, tense moment, and the only sound in the room was the crackle and pop of the wood burning in the hearth, before suddenly the queen dropped back in her chair with a heaving sigh, a petulant set to her dainty shoulders. “Yes, yes you’re quite right, my lady.” She rested her head back against the high back of the wooden chairs, and looked into Sansa’s eyes, her violet gaze going soft. “Forgive me. I know that I have been… demanding, where it pertains to your sister. I’ve found that I don’t like being kept in the dark.”

“Nor do I,” Sansa said, feeling her own shoulders relax. “Arya has never been the most loquacious when it comes to her secrets.” Then she pauses, and carefully adds, “But as her sister, it is my duty to support her, whatever those secrets may be.”

The corner of Daenerys’ mouth ticked up in a half smile. “I do admire your loyalty, Lady Sansa. If only my own family had been half so honorable.”

“Honor has its place,” Sansa said, thinking of her father. “But I’ve found it can be just as damning.”

“Mayhaps we are both too used to being disappointed,” Daenerys said, her eyes distant.

This time it was Sansa who reached out and placed her hand over Daenerys’. The queen wore no adornments on her hand today, and her fingers felt small and slender beneath Sansa’s touch. Daenerys looked down at their hands for a moment, and then suddenly turned her hand over, touching her palm to Sansa’s and making her breath catch with surprise. After only a moment of hesitation, Sansa let the other girl slide her fingers between hers, tangling their hands together, skin to skin. The queen’s grasp was gentle but firm, unapologetic but undemanding. Daenerys leaned forward in her chair, and Sansa realized how close they were sitting. 

She cleared her throat, which suddenly felt quite tight. “Mayhaps we are too used to not trusting others.”

Daenerys’ nose crinkled in a wry smile, but her gaze was as tender as a kiss where she met Sansa’s eyes. “Mayhaps we ought to try harder, then.”

“Mayhaps,” Sansa whispered. Any closer, and they might be kissing. There was the sound of footsteps outside of Daenerys’ chambers and they both startled a little, and the moment was lost as Sansa leaned back in her chair, feeling oddly out of breath. 

Daenerys stroked her thumb. “The two of you are so similar.”

Sansa blinked. She couldn’t remember a time that anyone had called her and Arya  _ similar.  _ “Are we?”

Daenerys laughed. “I do not know your sister well, yet, but I’ve found the two of you to be terribly alike. Both of you are stubborn, and honorable. You both care so much for Winterfell, and for all of your people whether they be smallfolk or nobles.”

“Well,” said Sansa, after a moment. “We were both raised by Ned Stark. I suppose that means more than any petty differences.”

“You do not look at all alike, though,” Daenerys added thoughtfully. “I had pictured all of you to look as you and your brother do.”

“No,” Sansa smiled. “Arya looks like our father, like a Stark. Rickon and I take after our mother, who was a Riverlander.”

Daenerys’ eyes burned into hers. “She must have been very beautiful, your mother.”

Sansa swallowed. “Yes, she was.” As ever, the thought of her mother made grief pool in her chest, but something in Daenerys’ bright eyes eased it. It was not so terrible to talk about her family, not with Daenerys, who understood better than most what it felt like to miss the past; to miss what could have been. She reluctantly took her hand from Daenerys, but only used it to push herself to her feet. “I was wondering, Your Grace, if you might like to take a walk with me.”

Daenerys’ smile grew, and she stood up as well. “I would like that.” Then, “And I would like it, if you might call me Dany when we are alone.”

Sansa bit her lip, her cheeks feeling overly warm. “Dany,” she said, tasting the name in her mouth. The queen’s eyes,  _ Dany’s _ eyes were very large, and very bright, and very purple as the other woman beamed at her. The moment felt too grand to be contained, too much for Sansa’s wounded heart to bear, but nevertheless, here they were. Mayhaps she could be brave, after all. “If you are to be Dany, then I must be Sansa.”

If possible, Dany’s smile grew wider. “Sansa,” she said, and offered her slim arm. “Shall we walk?”

Sansa looped their arms together, feeling oddly giddy even as nervousness made her giggle. “Most certainly, Dany.”

* * *

“She makes you smile,” Arya said, the next day, while they practiced in the godswood. Sansa’s good mood had lasted all evening, long after their walk ended and she had bid Daenerys good night, only to find her dreams assaulted with more nightmares. Nevertheless, the memory of Dany’s arm in her own, the memory of that brilliant, pink smile, had followed her into the morning, and Sansa kept finding herself distracted even as Arya pushed her throbbing muscles through their paces. 

Sansa lowered her practice sword for a moment, her arm trembling with exhaustion, sweat beading at her temples despite the frigid temperature. “Is that a bad thing?” she asked her sister.

Arya pursed her lips. “I like her,” Arya said. “And I like seeing you happy. I don’t think that can possibly be a bad thing.” She prodded Sansa’s legs with her own sword until Sansa grimaced and bent them into the proper stance. 

“Do you trust her?” 

“Arms up,” Arya said sharply, gripping Sansa’s forearm and lifting it while Sansa held back a whine as her sore shoulders protested. “I trust that you have the best intentions for the North, and if you think trusting her is the best course of action, then I suppose I do, too.”

Sansa was touched by Arya’s trust, but she didn’t say so, mostly because she was getting very tired of this practicing idea. “We need her,” Sansa said, “and I think that she needs us, too. Our support, anyways.”

“Well she has that, at least,” Arya answered, and easily disarmed Sansa, who bit out a curse, making Arya laugh. “Pick it up,” she said, “never let your weapon out of your sight.”

Sansa irritably scooped up her sword where it lay atop the roots of the heartree, barely noticeable beneath the snow. “She has your support, then?” Sansa asked, straightening up, hissing at the cold in her fingertips where the snow chilled her through her gloves.

“She does,” Arya smiled. “Even if I’ve yet to see a dragon.”

Sansa snorted. Only Arya would  _ want  _ to see a dragon; even Sansa feared the very thought of them, regardless of the fact that they were their greatest weapon in the coming fight. “Be grateful they aren’t eating from our stores.”

Arya sighed. “I just want to see one, is that really so much to ask?” She looked young in that moment, like the little girl Sansa remembered, begging Old Nan for just one more story before they went to bed. Instead of grief as usual, the memory made Sansa smile. 

“I’ve no doubt you’ll see them one day soon,” Sansa soothed, brushing snow out of her hair and tapping her sword against Arya’s as they settled into position once more. “Too soon,” she added with a grimace.

“Did Jon write?” Arya asked, swinging her sword lazily in an arc that Sansa managed to block. 

“No,” she said. “He hasn’t answered since I sent the raven telling him you were back.” Her grimace grew. “But I’ve been having dreams.”

Arya stopped suddenly, straightening up. “Dreams,” she said slowly. “About the end of the world?”

Sansa exhaled. “Yes.”

They stood there for a moment, both of them darkening at the memories of those terrible, terrible dreams. Sansa wasn’t sure if it made her feel better or worse, knowing that Arya was burdened with the same horrors. Perhaps it meant that they were doomed. Or perhaps everyone was dreaming the same dreams, as their fears increased as the inevitable fight drew closer. 

“Do you really think that we have a chance?” Arya asked, looking terribly young.

“I have to,” Sansa said. “I have to believe that. I have to believe that all of this means something. I have to believe that Daenerys and her dragons came to Westeros when they did because they’re meant to save us - that three dragons hatched after centuries for a reason beyond taking back the Iron Throne. I have to believe that Daenerys is the one in Jon’s dreams, the Prince Who was Promised who will save the Dawn.”

Arya was quiet, and the godswood was quiet. “You really care about her, don’t you? More than her being our queen, I mean.”

Sansa bit her lip. “Yes,” she whispered, barely daring to breathe the words. “Yes, I think I do.”

Arya nodded. “I hope that she’s everything you believe her to be,” her sister said seriously.

Sansa offered her a watery smile. “So do I,” she said, laughing a little at her own daring. She looked at her sister closely. “Is there someone out there that you… care for?” As odd as the idea of her little sister romancing someone was to her, she hated the thought that Arya had been alone all these years as Sansa was. Certainly Arya could not be so beautiful and not have men falling at her feet wherever it was that she’d been. 

Arya looked down, brushing off her armor where fresh snow kept landing. “I suppose there is.”

“Are they waiting for you?” Sansa asked gently.

Arya smiled, her eyes distant as she looked off to the distance. “No,” she said. “I think that I’m waiting for him.”

“Oh,” said Sansa, not quite sure what to say to that. If someone had told her a few weeks ago that she would be standing in the godswood talking about  _ love  _ with her sister while they practiced swordplay, she would have thought them completely mad. How strange life was proving to be; dragons, and wights, and sisters, and romance, all here at the end of the world. 

Arya shook her head. “Don’t get maudlin on me,” she warned, shoving Sansa lightly. “And don’t think I’m going to go easy on you now that we’re talking about  _ feelings. _ ”

Sansa laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She raised her sword once more, and Arya began to dance.

* * *

“Are you worried about your brother?” Daenerys asked a few days later, as the two of them strolled through the glass gardens. 

Sansa plucked a stalk of lilac from the trellis where it was growing, inhaling the sweet fragrance. “Rickon seems to be doing well. Maester Eyrion tells me that he’s progressing well in his studies, when he can find the patience to actually sit and listen.”

Daenerys looked at her from where she was sitting on the little bench that one of the Lord Starks of the past had installed for his wife, so that she might come and sit amongst the flowers. The queen was attempting to construct a flower crown out of lilies. “I meant your half-brother. Your sister tells me that he hasn’t been in touch since you last wrote him.”

Sansa paused where she was collecting mint leaves for her tea. “Oh,” she said quietly. “I’m sure that Jon is very busy, preparing for our arrival at the Wall.” She ripped at a leaf of mint, the sharp scent tingling making her nose tingle. “I hope that he is alright.”

Daenerys stood, taking one of Sansa’s hands, and Sansa turned so that they were face to face. With a smile, Daenerys reached up and placed her lopsided crown of white flowers atop Sansa’s head, securing the adornment with a pin from her own hair, which she was only wearing half-braided. Sansa blushed and hesitantly laced her fingers through Daenerys’ own. 

“You look lovely with a crown, Sansa,” Dany smiled.

Breathing was suddenly much more difficult. “Thank you, Dany,” she said breathlessly. Her stomach swooped, and she wondered if this was how Lyanna felt when Prince Rhaegar offered her that crown of winter roses. Surely even the Dragon Prince could not have looked as lovely as Daenerys did, standing beneath the colorful flowers in her white fur dress, her cheeks pink from the cold. 

Dany cradled her hand between both of her own. “I hope that your brother is alright,” she said earnestly. “I’ve seen him in my dreams, I think.”

Sansa inhaled sharply. “Have you?”

Daenerys’ eyes unfocused for a moment. “I have seen a man,” she murmured, “a man wielding a flaming sword, standing before an army of the dead. I have seen a great Wall of ice, and blue roses growing out of it. I have seen my dragons, and great ice spiders, and mammoths with glowing blue eyes.”

Sansa shivered. “I have seen things, too, in my dreams,” she whispered. “I see the dead, and I see Winterfell. I see the end.”

“It will not be the end,” Daenerys swore, her eyes refocusing as she grasped Sansa’s hands tighter. As Sansa stood before her, she could feel the weight of this unnamed  _ thing  _ they had between them; she could taste the enormity of her own heart’s longings choking her. “I will not let the world end when I have only just begun to see it. I did not survive all that I have faced only to fall to this Night’s King.”

Sansa looked down at their joined hands. “Do you think that they will write songs about this? About the end, about us, about the men who will die to save us all?”  _ Will anyone remember us,  _ she wondered,  _ if we fall?  _

“Songs of ice and fire,” Daenerys said gravely, “to be sung for a thousand years hence.”

Sansa felt tears prick her eyes. She did not want to die. She did not want Daenerys to die, or Arya, or Jon. She did not want to taste this tiny glimpse of happiness only to see it end in despair. “Can we talk about something else?” she managed.

Daenerys brushed Sansa’s hair out of her face, her fingers warm where they grazed her cheek. “Anything you wish, my lady.”

Sansa huffed a laugh. “I thought you were going to call me Sansa?”

Dany grinned. “Are you not also my lady? I’m told that queens can name any woman in Westeros as such.”

Sansa felt her cheeks heat up again. She had been wedded and bedded before, and still she was not accustomed to flirtations; how easily Daenerys disarmed her, how easily she made her defences weaken. It was precarious, the warmth that grew in her with each smile from the silver-haired queen, but Sansa was tired of hiding from herself. Didn’t she deserve to be happy, too? Didn’t she deserve to live, and not just survive? There were memories in her head that whispered that she didn’t, that she shouldn’t trust her own heart, that it would all end in blood and pain and tears. But Sansa had other memories, too.

Memories of Jory and Jeyne, clinging to each other in an unkind world. Memories of her mother’s smile, memories of her father’s laugh. Memories of Arya’s warmth, of Jon’s strength, of Rickon’s joy when she saw him for the first time in years. Memories of Daenerys’ warm eyes, of her warm hands. These were the memories she listened to, that she used to push the others away.

She took Daenerys’ hand again. “I am yours, my queen,” she said with a smile. “You may call me what you wish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, they're almost there. They're starting to realize that they can choose each other and not neglect their duties, I think. They're starting to really *see* one another - not as an enemy, not as a rival, not as an ally or a pawn, but as themselves. Will they be brave enough to take that final step, to bare their souls? I guess we'll see in the next (and last!!!) chapter. Hope this was worth the wait. 
> 
> Please let me know if there are any mistakes, I think I caught them all editing this but who knows.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ending, and a beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? First of all, I am very sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out. Between the holidays, the stress of being an American right now, writer's block and shitty luck (our plumbing went out which has cost us thousands and may still cost us thousands more, and I really never needed to know what it was like to live without running water, ugh), I had a really hard time focusing on writing anything at all, let alone finishing this fic that has become so important to me. Second of all, I hope you all had a safe and enjoyable holiday season, if you celebrate any holidays, and that any American readers I may have are staying safe in these trying and terrifying times. Lastly, I just want to say my heartfelt thanks to all of my wonderful, wonderful readers and reviewers who have stuck it out through this story with me - your feedback and your enjoyment and your compliments have really kept me going these past few months, and I adore each and every one of you. This story means a lot to me, and I'm really emotional right now that I've finally finished it. I really hope that you enjoy this ending - it's for me, it's for you, and most of all, it's for Sansa and Dany, who deserve all the love in the world.

Sansa’s mouth tingled all through the rest of the day, and all through the night, and even when she woke up the next day her lips were still warmed by the echoing memory of Daenerys bringing their mouths together in the sweetest, chastest kiss Sansa’s ever experienced. Daenerys had had pollen on her fingers, and Sansa had had a wreath of white lilies in her hair, and beneath a canopy of sweet purple lilac, Sansa had told her _I’m yours,_ and Daenerys had kissed her. 

In the morning light, waking up alone in a bed of furs when her ladies came in to stoke the fire, she had been worried that it was just a dream; the gods knew that she’d dreamed of worse, had dreamed of more than just her queen’s lips, but her fears had been allayed at breakfast, when Dany had offered her a buttered roll and her touch had lingered far longer than necessary; if Daenerys’ ladies had wondered why Sansa had blushed like a maiden on her wedding night at the offer of a piece of bread, they’d been kind enough not to say anything. After Missandei and Irri and the other girls that Sansa did not know the names of had left, Sansa had hoped to discuss what might happen next, or maybe to kiss the dusting of cinnamon off of Daenerys’ lower lip, or maybe to draw the shawl from around Daenerys’ arms so that she might touch and explore some of her warm, golden skin, but then Tyrion had burst into the room, his scarred face flush from running, and announced that there was a rider approaching Winterfell - a man on a horse back, accompanied by a great, white wolf.

Now she, Daenerys, and Arya stood together in the courtyard, Sansa brushing elbows with both Dany and her sister as they waited, all of their hearts racing. The snow was falling in thick, fat flakes that began to melt like frigid tears on her face, and her heart ached and ached as she thought of the last time all of their living family had stood right where she was standing now; as she thought of one brother while waiting for another. It had been snowing the last time she had seen Robb, snow melting in his auburn curls, and she supposed it was only right that it snow now that Winterfell was welcoming home its lost son. The whole world seemed to be holding its breath, as everyone waited nervously for what news Jon Snow would bring with him from the Wall.

It was Ghost she saw first. He was huge now, nearly as large as a horse, his fur whiter than the snow he waded through, and his eyes glowed red like hot coals. He loped silently into the courtyard, his ears pricked, his gaze sweeping across the gathering of people and landing on the Starks; when Ghost met her eyes, a shiver ran up Sansa’s spine, and not for the first time, Sansa’s bones ached with sadness at the memory of Lady’s soft fur beneath her fingertips. There were days when she forgot that Lady had ever existed, and then she would catch Rickon wrestling with Shaggydog, knocking the furniture to and fro, and her heart would burn with wretched jealousy, with tremendous grief. The first time she had seen Ghost, after her reunion with Jon, she had fallen to her knees and wept, burying her face in his white fur and longing for the nights she dreamed of running through the woods on Lady’s graceful paws. 

It had been a long time since she had had wolf dreams. 

Daenerys must have sensed her upheaval, for Sansa suddenly felt the queen’s warm fingers brush against her own, sending ripples of warmth up her arm. Sansa swallowed and lifted her chin, pushing past the sudden well of grief. Daenerys was radiating warmth even in the frosty air, and Sansa drew comfort from her fire. 

When Jon rode into the courtyard, she heard Arya let out a shuddering breath, and Sansa’s own heart leapt with relief and affection at the sight of his haggard, solemn face as he swept his hood down. He was dressed all in black like a true member of the Night’s Watch, Longclaw on his hip, and he looked far too thin for comfort, but when he saw her and Arya standing there, waiting for him, he seemed to grow young again, looking almost like the boy she remembered from childhood, though she didn’t think that she’d ever seen him smile as wide as he did now, launching himself off of his horse and running towards them. Arya made a pained noise at the back of her throat and leapt forward to meet him, the two of them crashing together and clinging on for dear life, and Jon started to laugh as he swung their little sister around in the snow. Sansa’s eyes pricked with tears, and a dangerous joy began to build in her heart, even amongst the grief.

When Jon set Arya down, he turned to her, radiant happiness in his grey eyes and a smile upon his face, and Sansa was somehow unsurprised to find herself rushing into his arms, gasping back tears and choking on a sob. He smelled like horse sweat and unwashed human and leather, and the hilt of his sword jabbed against her side, and he was freezing cold from riding through a snowstorm, yet Sansa couldn’t find it in herself to care as she hugged him back as hard as she could, and Arya, somewhere to her left, began to laugh as she fit herself against them in a group hug that threatened to squeeze all the air out of Sansa’s lungs; despite it all, Sansa began to laugh, too, and her tears fell like snowflakes.

After an age, the three of them stepped apart, and Jon straightened up and squared his shoulders as he turned to face Daenerys, for the first time greeting her in person. Sansa was impressed at his grace when he fell to his knees before her, genuflecting before the queen as every eye in Winterfell turned to the two of them. “Your Grace,” Jon said, his Northern accent rough and proud and familiar. 

Daenerys, a vision in a dress of purple and gold and swathed in furs of rich brown, her hair braided into a plait and adorned by diamond and moonstone pins, raised an eyebrow in greeting. “Lord Commander,” she said, her voice even and smooth, every inch the queen as she greeted her subject in their court of ice and snow. “Do you bring word from the Wall about our enemies?”

Rising, Jon said, “I do, my queen.” 

Daenerys nodded gravely. “Then we shall adjourn, and meet for supper in private while you speak your news to your sisters and I.”

Jon dipped his head politely in acceptance. “As you wish, Your Grace.” 

As they began heading towards the entrance to the keep, Sansa heard Arya whisper to Jon under her breath: “When did _you_ learn how to talk to a queen like that?”

Jon’s smile was rueful, and his eyes were very far away. At his side, Ghost never strayed further than his shadow. “You’re not the only one who had to grow up, little sister,” he said, and ruffled her hair.

* * *

When Sansa had heard of Jon’s imminent approach, she had sent Jory down to the kitchen with orders for a small welcome feast to be put together as befitted the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and they had not disappointed. At the table there sat a roasted pig stuffed with apples, dates, and winter oranges, and as Jon spoke they ate portions of the sweet, roasted pork, with beef and beet stew and brown bread served with butter, paired with flagons of ale and for Daenerys, a bottle of Arbor Gold. Jon, used to the meager meals at the Wall, fell on the feast like a man starved, his news told around bites of bread soaked with stew and pork drizzled with gravy from the chicken they had served a few nights prior. 

Sansa herself did not have much of an appetite, too nervous for news of the war front, but she sat and watched her brother and sister eat their fill with warmth in her stomach, sipping at her ale to keep her blood warm. Daenerys never skipped a meal, but today she only picked delicately at her food as she watched Jon eat, her purple eyes far away as Jon told them about his flight from the Wall to Winterfell, and how he received Sansa’s raven about Arya’s return when he was breaking his fast at the Last Hearth with the Umbers. He had left for Winterfell that night, regardless of the snowstorm. 

“The Greatjon has supplied as many men as he could spare to man the Wall,” Jon informed them, “and he bid me to tell you that when you lead our armies North, he will be with them.”

Sansa wasn’t surprised. After his son’s death, the Greatjon had hungered for vengeance while imprisoned by the Freys. After he was freed, after the Smalljon’s death was avenged by Manderly and Mormont men, the old Lord had vowed that he would never again fail the Starks, nor miss a battle; she suspected that he blamed himself for not being there for his son and their men at the Red Wedding. 

“The Last Hearth will be vital in the war,” Sansa said when Jon stopped to take a breath and a sip of ale. “It’s the closest keep to the Wall. We should send some of our army there to fortify their forces, and to act as a net in case some of the wights break through.”

“With any luck, none will make it past the Wall itself,” Daenerys added, “but Lady Stark is correct; we should use the Last Hearth as a safety net.”

“We could send some of our healers there, too,” Arya said, flipping her dinner knife over and over in her hand as she thought. “It will be safer to bring the injured there than to risk the lives of the healers at the Wall, and it’s a much quicker journey between the Wall and Last Hearth than it is from the Wall all the way to Winterfell.”

Jon nodded. “Everyone who dies at the Wall or beyond it becomes fodder for their army if we cannot burn their corpse immediately. Sending them to the Umbers is safer.”

“Maester Eyrion is young, but a skilled healer, and he has a level head,” Sansa offered. “If we send him there, he would be a good man to preside over the rest.”

“How many healers do we have?” Jon asked.

“Not enough,” Daenerys answered, “even with those who accompanied me. I dared not bring too many, for we barely have enough food to ration out to the soldiers as it is.”

“You should send word to Oldtown,” Sansa suggested. “The Reach has an abundance of food, and Maesters in training. Tell them they can earn their chain here.”

“Can we house that many men?” Arya asked.

“When the armies go North, we’ll have more than enough room, even with the refugees,” Sansa said.

“An excellent idea,” Daenerys said quietly, and they all spent the next few minutes sitting in silence, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the scrape of their cutlery against the plates as they ruminated. Mayhaps it would be best if they invited some of their advisors in for the meal, but Sansa did not want to interrupt their peace; this could be one of the last few times she had the chance to sit down with the three of them alone before they went off to war, and after -

Well. She could only hope that there would be an after. 

“You said that you had other news,” Dany said, after taking a long sip of her wine, her lips wet and distracting as she spoke. Sansa couldn’t help but remember the press of those lips against her own, and felt briefly guilty for indulging in such thoughts when she ought to be focusing on her family. 

Jon raised his eyes and met those of their queen. “I do,” he said quietly, and Sansa could feel the mood begin to shift. She sat up straighter in her chair and sat her spoon aside.

Something seemed to pass between Daenerys and Jon as they regarded each other, a sort of kinship, and Sansa remembered that Daenerys had been dreaming about Jon, too. Sansa shivered. “Tell us,” Dany entreated. 

“I have a friend at Oldtown, at the Citadel, studying to become a Maester,” Jon told them. “He found something that he thinks might be the key to stopping the Others.”

Arya leaned forward. “How?”

“There is a prophecy,” Jon said, “A prophecy of ice and fire.”

Beside her, Daenerys shuddered. 

* * *

After their talk, Daenerys bid them a goodnight and left the Starks to themselves in the solar. Maester Eyrion, who had been distracting Rickon with a lesson about warfare strategies in Essos, escorted their little brother into the room, and since then Rickon had been attached to Jon’s side, Shaggydog excitedly prancing around Ghost and nipping at his paws while the white direwolf indulgently nuzzled his brother’s flank. Looking at the two of them, it was hard to believe that Ghost had ever been the runt of their litter. The four siblings sat around the fire as Rickon nursed a cup of hot cider that Sansa had asked the cooks to give him in place of wine to celebrate, and Jon told child-appropriate stories to a desperately curious Rickon until it was late and the fire had had to be stoked three times. 

Finally, once his excitement ran out, Rickon fell asleep on the floor in front of the fire, his back tucked against Shaddydog’s massive belly. 

Sansa watched the fire dance. “I am glad that you’re home, Jon,” Sansa said softly, keeping her voice low so that she didn’t wake Rickon or Arya, who had dropped into a doze where she was curled up on her cushion, though Sansa did not know if she was truly asleep or simply meditating.

Jon offered a wan smile, embers of the fire shimmering in the reflection of his eyes, and her heart squeezed when she thought of how much he looked like Father in that moment. “So am I,” he whispered. “I have waited so long to see Winterfell again. I am grateful that I have the chance to now, before…”

She swallowed. “You said we had hope,” she reminded him. “You said that we had a chance.”

“Aye, we have a chance,” he said. “But it will take more than simple chance to win this war.”

“We have dragons, and we have nearly every available soldier in Westeros and Essos both.”

“And even then, we still do not have the numbers we would need to have the advantage,” Jon said. “And only one of the dragons has a master. Who knows how they will behave when they face down the dead?”

Sansa shivered, pulling her furs tighter around her shoulders. “You think we have so little a chance?” she said, barely above a whisper.

Jon sighed. “I didn’t say that. I believe we have the greatest chance that we could possibly have. If the dead had stormed us before Daenerys arrived, we would already be lost. But most of our soldiers barely even believe in the evils they will soon face, and fewer still have enough experience in fighting amongst snow and ice. The dead will have the numbers, and the terrain, and the element of fear.” He paused for a moment. “What we need, I fear, is luck.”

Sansa pursed her lips tightly. “I fear we’ve never had an abundance of that,” she said wearily.

Jon’s mouth twitched in a wry smile. “Not as such.” Then his smile widened. “Did you know, red hair is considered lucky amongst the Free Folk. Kissed by fire, they call it.”

Sansa felt her face heat up at the image that phrase conjured as her wretched mind flew right back to the day before in the glass gardens. _Then I should be doubly lucky,_ she thought, though she dared not breathe a word of it to Jon.

“Mayhaps I ought to accompany you north, then,” she jested instead, “for my great luck.”

Jon laughed softly, “Mayhaps you ought to cut off your hair,” he joked back, eyes bright, “and Daenerys might wear it as a favor for luck.”

They giggled together, and Sansa felt almost like a child again; except of course, she and Jon had never laughed together like this as children, nor would they have found such gallows humor entertaining. They have grown so, she thought. For better or worse. It wasn’t so long ago that Sansa would have found the idea of laughing with her bastard brother, or being so informal with him in private, utterly laughable. Her mother had taught her well, but Catelyn Stark had made her own mistakes in life. Sansa was eminently grateful that they had a chance, even if it might be a short one, to remedy that. 

They were suddenly interrupted by Arya’s voice. “Fuck luck,” she said, quietly, and Sansa jumped a little, turning to find Arya’s eyes open as she stared at them.

“ _Language,_ ” Sansa hissed, shooting a pointed look at Rickon, but Arya only rolled her eyes while Jon snorted in amusement.

“I mean it,” said Arya, sitting up straighter, her voice quiet but fervent. “Fuck luck. We don’t need it. We have each other.”

Sansa softened. Beside her, Jon whispered, “You Starks are hard to kill.”

It wasn’t true, she thought. But it was nice to hear all the same. 

“We Starks,” she corrected quietly. “We are all Ned Stark’s children, are we not?”

Jon gave her a mixed look, one of pain and one of joy, and she thought she understood it. Arya got up from her cushion only to come and lay herself in between Jon and Sansa, her head on Sansa’s shoulder and her legs draping over Jon’s lap. Instead of hissing at her for the impropriety as she once would have, Sansa felt herself relax into the contact, feeling like a wolf cub tucked in a pile with all her brothers and sisters, warm and safe in their little den. 

In front of the fire, Rickon began to stir. “Sanny?” he mumbled, rubbing his cheek against Shaggydog’s fur. “C’n I have s’more cider?”

They all laughed. “You know what?” said Sansa. “Tonight, you can have as much as you want.”

The pack was together again, and Arya was right.

They were stronger together. 

* * *

The next day saw what could very well be the last of Sansa and Dany’s walks together, and Sansa wanted to make the most of it, so instead of a walk through the courtyards or through the streets to visit with the smallfolk and the children, she laced her arm through Daenerys’ and led her out into the godswood. She had never taken her queen there before - it had felt disrespectful to her father, to the old gods, to the North, to let an outsider sit amongst the most sacred space in all of the North. She had not been able to stomach the idea of a foreign invader sitting where her father used to prey, where Robb used to pray.

But the time for such thoughts had passed. Now, she wanted to show Daenerys all the secret places of the North; she wanted to show Daenerys all the secret parts of herself, too, but that was a far more frightening temptation. 

“It’s so quiet,” Dany murmured as they walked beneath the canopy of snow-covered boughs, the snow laying thick and fluffy and undisturbed beneath their feet. She could see the steam of Daenerys’ breath as she spoke, and the pink flush to her cheeks, though she had never once complained of the cold. Perhaps Targaryens could not feel the cold the same way that the rest of them could. _Kissed by fire,_ she heard Jon say, but she wasn’t. It was Daenerys who had fire in her heart, in her bones and in her blood. It was Daenerys who radiated heat like the morning sun. 

“It always is,” Sansa answered, shaking her head to order her thoughts. She could hear their feet crunching in the powdery snow, and the rustle of leaves above them, and in the far distance she could just make out the faint bubbling of the hot springs, but other than that, the world seemed to be holding its breath. In this cold winter no birds sang, no branches snapped beneath hares springing through the undergrowth; from this distance, you couldn’t even hear the sounds of people, though Winterfell was far from quiet these days. 

It felt like they were the only two souls in the entire world. 

“ _Oh,_ ” Daenerys breathed when they finally entered the grove with the hearttree. “It’s incredible,” she marveled. 

The tapestry in the solar did not do the hearttree justice. It stood before them a pale giant amongst the pine and other evergreen trees that shared the woods with it, the trunk so thick around that four people could comfortably link their hands together around it. The face of red sap, bleak and ancient where it was carved into the white bark, watched over all it surveyed with eyes that seemed older than the world itself; that face had once struck fear into Sansa’s heart, but now it seemed to look at her with her father’s eyes, wise and solemn and mournful. The red leaves of its canopy were the brightest thing in the entire godswood, standing out as bright as blood on snow where they reached for the sky, blocking out the sky until everything was red, red, red. 

Sansa stood in silence as Daenerys walked forward, her face turned up in wonder as she approached the aged sentinel. She came to a stop before its bulk and reached one hand up as if to trace the face, but changed her mind and let her hand fall back to her side. Sansa felt as if she were witnessing the coming together of two cosmic forces, one young and one ancient, both of them flaming torches of magic. It was like she had unraveled time before her - here stood a god and a dragon rider, two beings of myth.

When Daenerys turned back to look at her, there were tears in her purple eyes.

“I see why you’re people worship before hearttrees,” Dany said, voice hushed as if she were afraid of waking the sleeping giant she stood before. Or - not afraid, perhaps, but respectful. “I have never seen anything like it before in all of my life.”

Sansa nearly laughed. Daenerys stepped right out of legend, and yet she became humbled by a simple tree. But she thought she could understand her meaning, anyways. 

She walked over to Daenerys until they were both standing amongst the twisted white roots that stood out like bone amid the snowfall. “This was my father’s favorite place in all of Winterfell,” she told her. “He came here everyday to pray.”

Daenerys took her hand. “I admire his faith,” she said. “I have heard many speak of their gods, but never have I understood such utter devotion.”

 _I’m starting to,_ Sansa thought. 

“Few were as loyal as my father,” she said instead.

Daenerys hummed. “I disagree. I have rarely met a soul as loyal as you are, Sansa. You would do anything for the North, for your people, for your family.”

Sansa flushed. She was not yet used to hearing her name on Daenerys’ lips, nor to receiving such warm words. “You are too kind, Your Grace. I only do what anyone would.”

“It is a choice,” Daenerys insisted. “A choice you make everyday. You choose to be brave, to be strong, to stand up for your people. I have met many men who would have fled long ago, or who would have used the misfortunes of the world to benefit himself. You choose to protect the North.”

“The North is my home,” Sansa said. “Its people are my family.”

Daenerys smiled. “Mayhaps you are more like your father than you thought.”

Sansa swallowed back the sudden urge to weep. “I try to be,” she whispered. 

A look of sadness crossed Dany’s face then, and the queen suddenly sat down upon the gnarled roots of the hearttree, uncaring of the snow that soaked through her white fur cloak. “I have had to be cruel, to get where I am,” Daenerys said quietly. “I have had to be fire and blood to survive. But I do not want to be cruel.” She looked wistful as she gazed out among the trees in their silent, watchful beauty. “I want to be kind. I want the _opportunity_ to be kind, if the world ever knows peace. I want to plant trees and watch them grow…”

Sansa sat down beside her, their knees touching. “Many of our trees burned during the wars,” she said softly. “Should we survive this war, they will need to be replaced. Replanted.” 

Daenerys looked at her, a fresh veil of tears in her eyes. “Would you have me plant your Northern trees, Sansa Stark? I do not keep your faith.”

“Trees must be planted by those who wish to see them grow,” Sansa said. “Someone who will guard the world they are a part of. Who better than the Protector of the Realm, the Savior of the Dawn?”

“You will name me savior?” Daenerys murmured. Their faces were very close, and Sansa could taste the air she breathed. 

“You have named yourself savior,” Sansa said, barely a whisper. “When I begged for aid, you came.”

In the glass gardens it had been Daenerys who kissed her, but now it was Sansa who leaned forward to press her lips against those of her queen. Daenerys exhaled against her in a long, slow breath before opening her mouth, and Sansa’s toes curled in her boots as the kiss deepened, as their lips parted and their tongues brushed together in their mutual desire to touch, to taste, to mingle. One of Daenerys’ hands came up to cup Sansa’s face, and Sansa moaned softly and nipped at her lower lip. Her lips were cold but her mouth was so warm, her taste lovely and rich, and the sounds Daenerys made when Sansa stroked the delicate ridges along the roof of her mouth with her tongue lit her aflame. 

They parted for air, both of them breathing hard, and Sansa was startled when she felt herself begin to laugh as the bubble of happiness in her chest forced its way out, and she felt more than a little lightheaded when Dany’s laugh joined hers. Daenerys captured her laughing mouth once more, and their third kiss was very nearly terrible, both of them giggling and euphoric and too flustered to do more than brush their lips together, and Sansa shivered happily as Daenerys rained kiss after kiss on her face; her cheeks, her nose, her eyelids, her forehead and back to her mouth again and again. One of Dany’s hands was tangled in her hair and the other reached out to lace the fingers of their free hands together, squeezing tightly as Sansa licked into Dany’s mouth once more.

She wasn’t sure how long they spent kissing; it could have been minutes, or hours, or perhaps even days, but eventually they had to stop when their lips became swollen and numb and they could no longer quite catch their breath. Instead of letting any space back between them, Daenerys turned until she could lay sidewise along the thick, ropy roots and laid her head in Sansa’s lap. Sansa, feeling braver than she knew what to do with, let her hands tangle into Daenerys’ silver curls, marveling at the softness of her hair. 

Far above them, a winter bird gave a call. “I wish we could stay right here,” Daenerys said.

“So do I,” Sansa answered softly. 

Daenerys twisted her head until she could look up at Sansa, taking one of Sansa’s hands in her own and laying her palm flat against her own cheek. Sansa took the silent plea and cupped Dany’s face, tracing the elegant lines of her face with her fingertips; her high cheekbones and her lush, swollen mouth, the straight length of her nose and her delicate brow. “You must come back,” Sansa said, quiet but forceful, the words leaving her mouth before she could fully think them through. “You must promise to return, after you defeat the dead.”

“A dangerous thing,” Daenerys said, eyes warm, “demanding a promise from your queen.”

Once, Sansa would never have dreamed of doing such a thing, but Daenerys had woken the wild bird that lived in her heart, and it was beating its wings against her ribs so hard that she could barely breathe around it. Sansa wanted to cry, to sing, to kiss her again, to never stop kissing her. She wanted to do something dangerous, like make a vow here beneath the red leaves of the hearttree. “My queen,” she said, and hoped it was enough. “My queen.”

“My Sansa,” Dany murmured back, reaching up to tangle their hands together once more. “So long as it is within my power, I will come back. I promise.”

Sansa nodded. It would do, for now. 

There were a thousand other things that they might say, like _I think that I may have fallen in love with you_ or _How can this possibly work between us_ or _I am afraid for both of our lives_ or even _Kiss me again,_ but neither of them wanted to break the comfortable, warm silence that settled upon them just then, and while Sansa knew that there would have to be many, many conversations about the future, she also knew that they could wait until tomorrow - and gods willing, all the tomorrows after that. 

And for once, Sansa wasn’t afraid of what was to come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have any schedule right now, but I do hope to make this into a series with a few one-shots set in the same 'verse. I very tentatively have planned a Jeyne/Jory side story, an Arya/Gendry side story, and probably some future Daensa content as well, but I can't promise that it will be written soon, or even at all. I really love this little universe that I've created and I really do hope to come back to it, but right now, I just want to say that I am very happy with how this story has come to an end regarding these two and their journey, and I hope you are, too. I wish you all the best 2021 you can possibly have.

**Author's Note:**

> Here we have a Sansa who has been traumatized quite badly by all that she's been through, and a Daenerys who has found Westeros to be not quite the dream she'd hoped for. Please remember that Sansa is seeing everything from the point of view of someone who has been repeatedly betrayed, prayed on, and abused, and her comparing Dany to her past abusers is just her way of reminding herself not to be too easily fooled. Once bitten, twice shy, and all that.
> 
> Tumblr: oncomingstormss


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